


When Stan met Rick

by skinsuit (orphan_account)



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick & Morty
Genre: AU: STAN&RICK VERSE, Anal Sex, Author's headcanon, Bill might be Nyarlahotep or Yog-Sothoth, Crossover Pairing, DID RICK WORK FOR UNIT AND TORCHWOOD?... YES., Doctor who reference blink and you'll miss it, F/M, Fringe Reference, Gratious spainish, Headcanon playground, Lovecraftian, M/M, MORE DOCTOR WHO REFERENCE, Multi, Night Vale mention, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Punk!Rick vs. Disco!Stan, Rick's shitty childhood revealed!, ambiguous crossovers, dub-con, gratuitous Spanish, gratuitous crossovers, stanchez, trigger warning: drug use, using Lou Reed to seduce someone, wubba-lubba-dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:30:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2529017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/skinsuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boston 1974:<br/>Ex-boxer, salesman and occasional thief Stan Pines is down on his luck, when he sees a skinny scientist, Rick Sanchez start a bar fight, and finish it with fire. And for the first time in a long time, Stan Pines laughs. Then runs, because the cops are coming and they might have warrant out for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walk on the wild side.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta reader PeaceBlank, Lesbeanweenies and GerbilFluff for being awesome and editing this. I'd also like to thank http://donniedraws.tumblr.com/ for giving the idea abotu Stan being a junkie his headcanon has basically become mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover art by the ever talented illuxtrology

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/finmagik/media/WSMR1.png.html)

~1974 Boston~

The bar was a dive, the plaster was cracked on the wall, the furniture was patched with duct tape and there was a haze of cigarette smoke and it stunk of stale beer and cigarettes. Stan was only here because Loretta the bartender was letting him stay at her place, above the bar, while her husband was on his tour of duty. He had no money and no job. Boxing was out, he’d thrown so many fights he’d been blacklisted. He’d picked the pocket of a plain clothes cop, and there was a warrant for him. No one would hire him, no references, because the last three jobs he’d had… well not all the money made it in the till and they’d found out somehow.

Worse, his sanctimonious twin brother refused to help him out. So a lumpy couch (and sometimes the bed) in a crummy apartment was all he had. It wasn’t so bad, a lie he told himself so many times, but Loretta thought he was funny and let him have free drinks. Loretta wasn’t much to look at, bleach blonde hair, heavy make up, spotty skin, a tattoo of a rose above her right breast, and she didn’t have all her teeth-But she tolerated him and her body was warm.

Stan had almost convinced Loretta to let him have just a shot-that’s not much— of scotch, when there was a commotion in the bar. This tall skinny fellow in a lab coat with the wildest brown hair who had been putting it away all night, staggered from his seat and crashed into a huge guy who looked like a cross between a bulldog and a warthog. Stan swiveled on his stool prepared to watch the fight.

“Hey! You made me spill my drink, asshole!” the wartdog says.The wartdog takes his ham sized fist and smashes into the skinnyguy’s face. The skinny guy reels, almost falls, but re-balances blood trickling from his lips. He began laughing, a mad cackling laugh. This was getting good, the smart money had been on wartdog but anyone who laughed like that had some crazy up his sleeve and Stan had to see that. The wartdog charges the skinny guy who takes out something that looked like a very small silvery gun from his lab coat, the gun sparked and the other man’s shirt is on fire. The skinny guy high tails it.

It was the funniest thing Stan had seen all night! The big man with with the flaming shirt flailed around screaming for a few seconds until someone grabbed a glass of something from a table and poured it on the guy. It was some kind of cocktail. Stan thought he’d bust a gut! It just made the fire worse! Stan couldn’t stop laughing. Then he noticed Loretta on the phone. The cops would be here, and they had a warrant out for him, so Stan got the heck out of there. The sirens were already blaring when he stopped to catch his breath in an alley nearby.

The skinny guy was there pissing against a wall, cool as a cucumber. He shook the last drops off, zipped up, then looked at Stan with a strange bug-eyed stare.

“Hey,” Stan said. “I saw what you did back there, it made my night!”

“S-s-so,” The skinny guy stuttered. “You like random acts of violence?”

“Well funny ones,” Stan said and put out his hand. “I’m Stan Pines by the way.”

The skinny guy didn’t offer his hand. “You know I just finished h-h-holding my dick…. you m-might want to re-think that.”

“Uh,” Stan withdrew his hand. “Right. What’s your name?”

“Rick Sanchez,” said the other man. “It certainly puts a dent in my evening, Punching Pines.”

Stan startled at his old boxing name. “How’d you know that?”

Rick took a flask out of his lab coat and took a swig. “I saw you fight in Detroit, you know back when you actually tried to win.”

“There’s better money in losing fights,” Stan said with a laugh.

“Besides a white jewish, boxer? I bet managers we’re just i-i-itching to promote the great kosher hope.” Rick added sarcasm dripping from his voice. “ 'Punching Pines, the Hebrew Sledge Hammer’, t-t-that was on your posters right?”

For a moment Stan was angry, ready to knock the lights out of this sarcastic long-hair, but of course he was right. The anger faded as quickly as it came, he crumpled and looked at Rick again.

“You got balls, talking to me like that,” Stan said. “But you’re right. I never had a chance, I don’t even keep kosher.”

“I-I-I know, I saw the fight in Detroit.” Rick commented.

Stan remembered the fight, that riotous hateful crowd, the slurs and spit. The guy he was fighting ‘Royal’ Leroy Washington wasn’t a bad guy, they’d worked out in the same gym and sometimes got drinks. But in the ring it was different. The name of the game was be hit and hit back, after all. The more ground he gained, the angrier the crowd became. To them Stan was every slum lord and pawnbroker, Leroy was them, the poor oppressed black boy. If he’d won that fight, he might have taken a purse but he’d be dead by the end of the night. So he swallowed his pride, ignored his trainer and took a fall.

“What was that thing you used back there, a lighter?” Stan asked.

“No, something I I-i-invented. It wasn’t supposed to do that,” Rick said. “I need to make some changes.”

“So you a student at one of the colleges, Rick?” Stan asked again.

“N-n-no, I w-w-work there,” Rick said. “B-but less chitchat Punchy, we c-c-can’t go back to that bar and we need to get f-f-fucked up.”

“We? Look I like to party, but I ain’t got that kinda money,” Stan said. “You’re on you’re own.”

Stan began to walk away, maybe the cops would leave soon and he could go back to Loretta’s lumpy couch.

“I do.” Rick said. “And I’ll-I’ll pay for your drinks, Stan”

Stan turned around and smiled. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

So began the long debased night. Stan was far from innocent but he had a weird feeling Rick was attempting to corrupt him in some way. So? Let him. They had a few rounds at one bar, did a few shots, moving on to another where they started again. Stan could carouse with the best of them but Rick just wouldn’t stop, beers, shots and some cocktails. Rick kept up a stream of babble to Stan about anything and everything, stuttering and mumbling. At first it was fascinating and refreshing, but as his mind got hazier Stan found himself nodding along not paying attention.

At around 1:00 am in the morning Rick seemed to have settled down. They were in, what was it? The Strangled Bishop? Stan couldn’t be sure, then Rick smiled at him. “Stan give me a sec- I gotta gotta make an announcement.”

Rick got to his feet.

“No- No… I don’t think you wanna do this,” Stan began.

Rick stood on the bar cleared his throat and yelled: “YOU ALL THINK YOU’RE SO GREAT! I’M S-S-SMARTER THAN ALL OF YOU! YOU’RE ALL ANTS COMPARED TO ME! MERE ANTS! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE! THERE IS NO GOD! G-G-GOODNIGHT!”

It made a weird sorta sense to Stan.

But the bar went silent and Stan felt a hand on the back of his neck, a very large man was glaring at them.

“You two, outta here, now,” The man said.

That’s when Rick kicked the bouncer in the head.

“Come on Palooka! Fuck him up!” Rick shouted.

Stan grinned, why the fuck not? Sure the guy was big, but there were two of them and didn’t he used to hit people for a living. He charged the bouncer, it felt amazing to be able to hit someone again. The rest of the bar joined in, fists, feet, tables and chairs flying. It went to hell, a delicious bloody hell where he was one of the chief demons.

 

They were cackling, bloody and bruised when finally the door slammed behind them. Stan wiped the blood from his lips.

“I like you Rick, you’re crazy,” Stan said with a laugh.

“Y-y-you don’t know the half of it,” Rick smirked. “My place is nearby, I’ve got a six pack in the fridge and some grass, you wanna hang out there?”

There was nothing better to do, why not.

Rick’s place turned out to be an old dockside warehouse.Two thirds of it were still warehouse and the rest was taken up by gadgets, half finished inventions and a an elaborate chemistry rig. It reminded Stan of his brother’s side of the room back when they were kids. Rick had set up some rooms with boards and sheets on strings in the far left corner as makeshift living quarters. Nearby, up a rickety set of stairs was the bathroom and a bedroom in what was once apparently the office for the warehouse. There was a faint orange light of a floor lamp coming from the far left corner where a battered green couch stood beside the floor lamp. There was an old tv and a small record player, with the records in milk crates nearby. A makeshift coffee table, of a board on a milk crate, was in front of couch. Also lots and lots of empty bottles and cans.

“Mi casa es su casa,” Rick said as he sidestepped around the tv.

Stan flopped down on the couch and muttered: “Gracias.”

Rick was in another part of the ‘house’ set up and called: “Hablas espanol?”

It had been four years since he was in San Juan, trying to hawk his brother’s ‘miracle’ vacuums.

“Cum se cum sa,” Stan said, waving his hand back and forth. “I’m a bit rusty. Mostly It’s just sales patter and askin’ where the john is.”

“I-I-it was all I was allowed to speak for the first four years of my life” Rick said reappearing from behind a sheet with two bottles of beers in one hand and a glass pipe in his other. “I learned English from the tv, if I spoke at home my Dad would beat me, if I spoke Spanish at school the other kids would beat me. Fucking  damned if I do, damned if I don’t, am I r-r-right, Stan?”

“Yeah I guess,” Stan said with a smile. “My Granny liked adding all this…. Yiddish around us. She did it to mess with people.”

Rick rolled his eyes. “Not my Dad, he was dumb as a brick, didn't know much English and he didn’t want us talking shit about him in it.”

He handed Stan one of the beers, sat down on the couch pulled out a lighter and lit up the bowl of the marijuana pipe. It glowed red as he inhaled deeply.

“Did you?” Stan said opening his beer and taking sip.

Rick finished his hit and handed the weed pipe to Stan.

“F-f-fuck no! He’d smack three kinds of hell out of us, if thought he heard any s-s-sass,” Rick replied with a cough.

Stan inhaled deeply on the pipe, it hit like a heavyweight. He felt an overwhelming floaty bliss and almost laughed, remembering something Rick had said: “Us?”

“Me and my sister,” Rick said, he seemed to hunch up when he said it. “My Mom for that matter too. But I don’t want to talk about this sad crap.”

“Yeah,” Stan said taking a sip from the beer. “To much of that.”

Rick took another drag on the pipe and passed it back to Stan. “You’re turn, Punchy.”

The booze and weed were combining to make him feel very sleepy and things were starting to get hazy. He took the second hit on the pipe. He was way too stoned and drunk. They talked, drank more beer and smoked for a while.

“I want some music,” Rick said jumping up. “Lemme put on some tunes, Stan. Is that okay?”

“Sure, fine.” If Rick had said that the world was ending and there was no way to escape it he would have been fine at that point.

He watched Rick grab an album from one of the milk crates and put it on the record player with the care of the very intoxicated, gently setting the needle on the record and turning on the machine.

Stan heard the strains of guitar and the odd monotone voice of Lou Reed singing (well sort of singing) about walking on the wild side. He nodded his head to the beat, and smiled in a dopey way.

Rick was very close next to him. That was cool, so the guy had no real concept of personal space, it was his place. Then he felt Rick’s hand on his thigh.

He squirmed and stared. “Uhh, what are you doing?”

Rick was closer than he thought, stroking his thigh. It felt weird, sorta good and sorta…. well it was a guy touching him.

“Relax, Stan. You’ll like this, trust me.” Rick said.

“Rick I’m flattered but I really like girls, ya know.” Stan replied hazily, he should reach down and remove Rick’s hand, he should punch the skinny bastard. But he didn’t want to, that hand knew what it was doing.

“So do I,” Rick said. “This isn’t a marriage proposal Stan, it’s called loosening up and having some fun. You don’t mind it, right?”

Stan thought while staring at the thin hand that was higher up on his thigh then he remembered. “No, I guess not.”

“W-w-when was the last time you had your cock sucked Stan?” Rick asked. “I mean really sucked, by someone who knew what they were doing, mmm?”

“You know I got a girlfriend,” Stan said, but the idea of getting a good blow job, not the lazy, sloppy, half way, thing Loretta did when she was too tired to fuck… Well… his dick certainly thought that was good idea.

“Her?” Rick made dismissive gesture. “A married bar hag, who just does it out-out of pity? You’re worth more than that.” Rick’s hand reached over and began to stroke the growing bulge between Stan’s legs. “C’mon Stan, walk on the wild side. You know you want to.”

Stan grabbed Rick’s hand, he meant to knock it away but instead he held it steady. The way it felt was electric, amazing, there was pleasure dancing through his nerves. No! He was straight, he liked women! He was a real man! He used  to box for god’s sake he wasn’t… but he needed it. He sipped his beer and considered,  finally answering, “Well… it’s not like anyone is watching right? And it’s just a blow job, Rick?” Stan said.

“Sure, sure,” Said Rick. He was already unbuckling and unzipping Stan’s pants and reaching into his boxers… and up it popped. Rick was leaning down his tongue flicking at the head, it made Stan shiver with pleasure. “You need this.”

And then he took Stan’s length entirely in his wet, hot mouth, it felt, it felt….

…..rapturous.

Rick did know what he was doing, between the hard tight suction, the flickering tongue touches, and his other hand massaging Stan’s balls; it felt like he was flying. It was electricity washing throughout him, ecstasy bubbling through him, but concentrated there… there…

His hand tangled in Rick’s already messy brown hair, he didn’t make much noise but Rick took every grunt, every hitch of breath as incentive and worked harder. At one point Stan wondered if had to reciprocate, that would be a disaster, really. Then he felt the building of sensation in his groin that meant only one thing. He gave a strangled cry, thrust into the other man’s throat and released a stream of hot come. Rick’s wide eyes went wider for a second but then he took in stride and afterward spit the load into an empty bottle.

“That was— that was…”

“..the best bj you’ve ever had…?”

“….Yeah…”

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“A bathhouse in New York.”

“But you aren’t….?”

“…Naw, too c-c-confining, I like both sides of the fence.”

“Right, good because I’m not…”

“You just got your cock sucked by a guy, Stan it’s a bit late in the game for denials.”

He thought, his brain wasn’t as quick as it usually was:

“…Yep. So what do you want?”

“To get b-b-baked and a handie.” Rick said, Stan gave him an odd shocked look.”You can do that, just jerk it like it’s yours, Punchy.”

 

So that was how he ended up very stoned, pretty drunk, and still quite horny with another man’s penis in his hand. Rick made even less noise than Stan did during the act. Just a small half-groan half-sigh heralded a very messy ejaculation. Stan withdrew his hand like he’d been drenched with acid.

Rick simply smiled then leant over and kissed him on the forehead.

“You can wash up in the kitchen Punchy,” Rick said with a belch.

Stan scurried away holding his hand out like it was leprous and rinsed it off in a plastic old work sink. When he returned Rick was sitting up but snoring. Stan curled up on the other end of the couch, put his head down and was asleep in an instant.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sales pitch Stan used to sell vacuums in San Juan: "¿Te gustaría comprar esta aspiradora de calidad? Stan aspiradora que succiona más que nada!"


	2. Rick quotes Casablanca.

Stan awoke to the smell of bacon and coffee, also a roiling stomach, and a headache that was sent from beelzebub himself. His mind was a tired jumble but he began to slowly put together what exactly had happened. He moaned, sat up and rubbed his head. He stunk of weed, and he heard the crackle of a record left playing after the grooves had run out. It all was coming back to him now, where he was, the whole evening, and his strange companion in these misadventures.

Then it hit him, what they’d done, and he felt odd. He didn’t mind gay guys, he just never saw himself as one of them. Maybe it was just one those things that happened when you got drunk, like making out with your cousin or deciding that jumping out a closed plate glass window naked was an excellent idea.

Stan got to his feet and the world did a loop-de-loop. The nausea overtook him, he made a dash for the sink and promptly vomited.

Rick was sitting in the kitchen area, nonchalantly eating some breakfast at a slightly off-balance blue formica kitchen table.

“N-nice one Punchy,” Rick said sarcastically. “I saved you some breakfast. Bacon, scrambled eggs, and c-c-coffee. “

Stan nodded and took a look around, golden late morning light was streaming through a high window in the warehouse’s back wall. He noticed the coffee percolator on the table, a home- constructed up hot plate on the floor with a cast iron pan, bacon and scrambled eggs sizzling away. Also there was a large upright freezer, humming away.

Stan rubbed his head again. “Right, thanks. About last night…”

“Y-yeah, yeah you’re not gay, well I’m not either.” Rick gave a sigh. “S-s-sometimes i just need a buddy to get shit-faced with. Now eat up, a big breakfast and some coffee will get rid of that hangover.”

Rick took a pull on his flask.

Stan’s stomach shuddered just thinking of booze.

“How come you’re so awake and happy about it?” Stan asked. “Some science stuff?”

“No,” Rick said. “Irish coffee, bacon, and a few lines of coke. Clears the cobwebs, Stan,”

He pointed to his head and gave a slight sniff. “You slept waaay too long, I was up hours ago. You gotta g-g-get moving Stan, you gotta get moving.”

“Urgh,” Stan closed his eyes. “Just let me get some coffee in me, then we’ll talk.”

He drank the coffee black in a white chipped mug that had written on it: ‘UNITED NATIONS INTELLIGENCE TASK-FORCE, LONDON, ENGLAND.’

The plates were styrofoam. Despite his seesawing stomach and the far too bright sunlight, Stan found he had an appetite, the bacon and eggs hit the spot. As he ate, Rick poured more cocaine on the table and began to cut lines. Rick did two lines, zip-zip the powder was up his nose. He grunted, whooped, and shook his head.

“Want some?” Rick offered, sniffling.

“I like to keep the hard drugs for the evening.” Stan quipped side eyeing Rick.

Rick did more lines and then gave Stan a bug-eyed glare.

“S-s-suit yourself, Punchy. I got things to do, people to see ya know I-I-I can’t be entertaining rough trade, all the time. Eat and get going. I have to be at Harvard soon, doing very important research, they need me.” Rick spoke at a brisk pace.

He got to his feet.

“Right, well I know when I’m not wanted.” Stan shoveled the food into his mouth washed it down with the scalding coffee. “We had some fun though, see ya again?”

He held out his hand for a handshake or high five.

“Yeah, s-s-sure sure,’ Rick said with a jittery impatience.

He was about to take Stan’s hand in his own when Stan faltered and bumped into him, almost falling to the floor. Rick groaned and offered a hand to steady him.

“Heh-heh, whoops sorry! I guess I’m still a bit dizzy,” Stan said with a bashful smile as he took Rick’s hand getting to his feet.

“Y-Yeah,” Rick belched and rolled his eyes.

Stan took a step forward smiling, he’d grabbed so much during the confusion, easy as— then he felt Rick’s nails digging into his hand, and his wrist was jerked and twisted at painful angle.

“OW! What the hell?!” Stan complained, his wrist still held in the pincher like grip.

The pain made him really stumble, and fall to one knee.

“Give it back Stan,” Rick sighed.

“What are you—ow! Talking about?!” Stan yelped at a new feeling of pain and pressure.

“My wallet, lighter and whatever e-e-else you tried to steal from my lab coat,” Rick said, giving Stan’s wrist another twist. “And all the money.”

“OW! Geez, fine.” Stan cried. He removed Rick’s wallet from his jeans, the lighter, a small metal box with lights, and a glowing yellow shard of crystal, spilling them all on the floor. “There! Happy!?”

Rick released Stan’s wrist, scooped up the items on the floor and checked his wallet for cash.

Stan rubbed his sore, red, wrist and glowered at Rick.

“Yeah,” Rick said. “See you soon, P-P-Palooka.”

“Not likely,” Stan growled as he left the warehouse.

He considered coming back when Rick wasn’t around, who knew how much money all that science-y junk was, the copper alone would be be worth a mint! However, the skinny bastard must have the place booby trapped.

Eventually Stan made it back to Loretta’s and the bar. The place looked even shabbier in the daytime, the barflies uglier, but the ugliest thing in that bar was Loretta’s face when she saw him. Looking at someone like that should be considered a war crime.

“Where the hell did you go last night?!” She yelled at him, coming out from behind the bar and getting inches from his face.

“None of your beeswax,” He grunted trying to step around her.

She wouldn’t let him, she stepped with him.

“No! Where the fuck did you go Stan? Why the fuck did you leave me with this place in chaos?!” She shrieked.

He backed up a step. “Why the hell should I tell you?! It’s not like we're married or anything.” He snarled.

“Because Stan,” She fumed. “I let your broke ass stay here, rent free, because I thought you’d provide some muscle when things got hairy.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Really? I thought it was because you needed a screw while you’re husband wasn’t here.”

She turned red but she backed away, and crossed her arms over her chest. “You can fuck off, Stan, I let you stay with me outta charity and you chicken out when I need you. So you can get the fuck outta here!”

“What?” Stan was blindsided. “Loretta, what are you saying?”

“Go upstairs, take your shit and leave.” Loretta snapped. “Now!”

“-But Loretta honey…” Stan began.

“—Get your shit outta my place and go somewhere else.” Loretta turned away from him.

He was flabbergasted, he couldn’t, she didn’t just— There had be something else.

“Baby! You don’t mean that! I don’t have no where else to go!” He pleaded.

“I don’t care Stan! Go stay at the Y! Go to your Mother’s! Go be a bum! Cuz’ you ain’t staying with me.” She huffed.

He opened his mouth to beg her for some lenience, then he realized it was pointless, his shoulders slumped and he gave a sigh. “…fine I’ll go.”

Mournfully he trudged upstairs and began packing his few belongings into a cardboard box. His clothes, his toothbrush, hair cream, contact lenses, cigarettes, his jewelry, cologne and his gold plated brass knuckles. Also cleared up all the spare change and loose cash around the apartment. Loretta wouldn’t see it and he needed it.

He put on his black leather jacket and trudged out the door.

He over heard one of the barflies say: “Good Riddance. You’re better off without that Ikey bastard.”

He saw red at the slur. He turned, and punched the old drunk right in the jaw and sent him flying off his stool. Then Stan turned back and walked out of the bar.

He had no where to go, he couldn’t live with his Mom she was in Boca and he didn’t have the money for the bus ticket. His brother probably hated him for that shit he pulled to get out of the draft. As for the YMCA they were full up last time he checked. So… so… where could he go?

Well of course, where he’d spent the morning, Rick’s warehouse. He walked to the warehouse on the docks and pressed a small buzzer on the door. No response, he tried again. Then he sat down and waited, huddling inside his leather jacket, knees to his chest. He smoked a few cigarettes and waited.

The sun was setting when a tall, skinny figure staggered down the street. Rick shook his head and raised his unibrow at Stan.

“L-Look what the cat dragged in,” Rick said.

“I got no where else to go,” Stan sighed. “Look you don’t know me, but I promise I won’t rip you off. I’ll do cleaning, I’ll even pay the rent on this joint when I get a job.”

Rick sighed. “Stop lying Palooka, there is no reason why I-I should let you stay with me.”

“Right,” Stan got to his feet. “I’ll go then.”

“Hey! Hey! I wasn’t saying you can’t stay with me,” Rick interjected. “You can, just a few rules.”

Rick fumbled for his keys in his lab coat.

Stan grinned. “Great! Thanks! You won’t regret it!”

Rick laughed. “You haven’t even heard the rules yet Punchy.”

“Yeah, yeah… lay em on me.” Stan said.

Rick pulled out his flask took a long pull off it, belched and then spoke:

"Rule one: If I’m working you leave me alone unless I say I need help.

Rule two: When I need help, you have to help me no excuses, no matter what.

Rule three: When I want to party with you, we party, right, you can’t chicken out or leave me hanging.

Rule four: We might keep f-f-fooling around, if we do, don’t get clingy or jealous if I want to fuck someone else. W-w-we’re not O-Oscar Wilde and Bosie.

Rule five: When I need a human test subject, you are that test subject.

Rule six: No stealing from me again or you are out on your ass. ”

 

Rick then offered the flask to Stan. Grabbing the flask he gulped it down, it was a rough, cheap,  burning and bitter whiskey. It made him feel slightly light headed.

“Sure, okay. Sound great, I agree.” Stan said quickly.

“Do you even understand what this means, Stan?” Rick said.

“Uhhh… sure.” Stan nodded.

He had heard the rules, but they didn’t sound that bad, and he was sure he could do that stuff, right? Besides, Rick might be too high or drunk to know if he didn't.

Rick took out his keys and opened the door to the warehouse:

“Right then, welcome home Stan.”

And without a moment’s hesitation Stan Pines stepped into the warehouse with his new roommate Rick Sanchez. Feeling a touch on his shoulder, he turned. Rick grabbed his face and pulled him into a deep kiss, then just as quickly released him. Stan blinked, stunned, a bit turned on and shook his head staring at Rick.

“What was that?” Stan asked.

“Oh I was just fucking with you.” Rick said. “Stan, this is start of the beautiful friendship.”

“Uhhh… sure… right.” Stan said picking up his box and stepping inside. He had a odd feeling about this but he pushed it down. Rick was letting him stay here, despite being a skinny freak, and that was cool, also maybe a small part of him wanted to kiss Rick again.

 

 


	3. Rick Trips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank HornedTiger for translating the Spanish properly.

 

Most of the time living with Rick was boring.  Rick would get up early, drink tons of coffee or do cocaine, and work on his inventions, sometimes he’d ask Stan to hand him a tool or a soldering iron. Then he’d go off to do whatever mysterious research he was working on at Harvard, he was pretty tight-lipped about it. Sometimes they’d go out at night, do a bar crawl, get blottoed, fight someone, usually end up making out on the couch, so drunk that neither could get it up for love or money. Occasionally it wasn’t booze, but something else: smoking weed till they couldn’t move or doing line after line of blow until both of them couldn’t stop twitching,or they’d play grab ass and dry hump each other for hours.  Rick maintained his endless supply of drugs by making and selling large amounts of LSD. He kept it in the standing freezer and would trade it or sell it to several people: Chad a smelly hippie, Wentworth a stylish black man, and Nancy a weird chick who wore a safety pin through her nose and spiked her hair. There were others but those three were regular buyers.

 

Stan spent his days listening to records, watching the black & white tv, shadow boxing, and  reading the local want ads. Sometimes he’d practice coin tricks, lazily passing a quarter over and under his knuckles or hang out with Wentworth or Nancy. He liked them, hated Chad who reminded him too much of Thistle Downe, but Wentworth was beyond cool and was teaching him how to run a three card monte game. Nancy was amusingly cynical and refreshingly full of rage, they’d take turns playing five finger fillet and make small bets on when and if they’d skewer a finger. But most of the time life was tedious as hell.

 

He wondered if Rick’s colleagues at Harvard knew about this, or cared. Usually when Rick got back he’d either fling himself into making his inventions or grab a beer, sit down on the couch with Stan and watch tv.  Sometimes he’d come back babbling, wide-eyed and staggering. When this happened a terse lady with red hair called Nina would lead Rick to the door and tell Stan to keep an eye on him. At these times it looked to Stan like Rick was trippin’ balls, but no… it had to be something else... because why would he drop acid at Harvard?  During these times Rick would talk in a mixture of Spanish and English, also he let slip the names of his colleagues: one was ‘Bishop’, one was called ‘Bell.’ He’d say things like:

 

‘Walter keeps calling me Ricardo, I’ve told him that’s NOT my name anymore,  why the fuck won’t he listen?’

 

_‘Puedo sentir mi tercera apertura de los ojos !Se quema , como el ácido !’_

 

’It’s all so clear! So clear! Reality is like wet paper and we’re so close to trans- dimensional penetration.’

 

‘They were wrong… _rompiendo la barrera de la velocidad de la luz es tan posible , estoy tan cerca !_ … If I could just make the right fuel for it!’

 

‘I can see all your veins Stan, they’re so beautiful and pulsing!’

 

‘El _asistente de pingüino está tratando de matarme ! GET IT LEJOS ! El suelo está derritiendo! '_

 

‘Wow, so many c-c-colors. So many… but I still can’t see them all.’

 

_‘No confíe en el triángulo que él sólo habla mentiras ! La suya no es Bill , que es un heraldo de los dioses mayores ! '_

 

‘Bell looks like Spock from Star Trek…it’s so funny! I’m doing science with SPOCK, STAN!’

 

Most of the time, Stan would just let him talk nonsense. Stan would lay Rick on the bed and watch him, making sure the skinny knucklehead didn’t hurt himself.

  


But this day was different, however it started normally enough.  Stan went outside and collected the mail, he whistled to himself as he looked through the stack of various bills, junk mail -a coupon book- Stan tucked that in his pants pocket, and a letter from San Quentin State prison addressed to a Ricardo Sanchez. He stopped whistling and walking.

 

“W-what’s going on Punchy?” Rick asked.

 

“Why do you have a letter from a prison?” Stan asked.’

 

“Give it to me!” Rick said and grabbed at it.

 

Rick lunged and grabbed the mail from Stan’s hands. He opened it and read it standing up.  Then he broke into a wide smile, laughed, whooped, and began doing a dance that was part frug, part twist and part obscene pelvis thrusting.

 

When he grabbed Stan and began grinding on him, Stan pushed him away.

 

“Whoa! What’s got you in such a good mood?”

 

Rick pirouetted close and handed Stan the letter.

 

Stan read:

 

SAN QUENTIN STATE PRISON

MAY 4TH, 1974

 

            DEAR MR SANCHEZ,

          WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR FATHER (EMIL R. SANCHEZ) PASSED AWAY TODAY FROM CIRRHOSIS OF THE LIVER.

          IF YOU’D LIKE TO ARRANGE BURIAL OF HIS REMAINS PLEASE CONTACT THE CALIFORNIA DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS.

          HIS EFFECTS CAN BE PICKED UP AT….

 

Stan stopped reading. He thought about his own father’s death from cancer and a wave of sadness washed over him.

 

“Geez Rick I’m sorr-“

 

Rick was still dancing, doing a little boogie, throwing in a few disco moves….

 

“—What the fuck is wrong with you!” Stan finished.

 

Rick grabbed Stan’s shoulders. “He was an abusive, drunken,  asshole, I’m celebrating!”

 

Rick  kissed him firmly on the lips.

 

“Gaah!” Stan shook himself. “So you didn’t get along, it doesn’t mean you have to—“

 

Rick stopped dancing and stared at Stan. “You know why he was in prison? He killed my Mom, smashed her skull in with a hammer over not getting beer fast enough. When I say he was an a-a-asshole, he was.”

 

“Fuck!” Stan’s jaw dropped open. “That’s really sick.”

 

“Tell me about it, I had to live with them.” Rick said. “…Well until I was fourteen, g-got my GED and one of my inventions got the attention of the government and I got a full scholarship to MIT. I was outta there.”

 

Stan blinked. “Fourteen? That’s really—“

 

Rick glared. “I-I- been taking care of myself since I was nine. Mom was a u-useless sheep, Dad was an asshole and my older sister, Cassandra, went to live with our Aunt Esme in New Mexico when she was 12.”

 

“Why didn’t you go with her?” asked Stan.

 

“Aunt Esme lived in the weirdest fucking town there was, Night Vale, that place gave me the creeps when we’d visit.” said Rick.

 

“So what about your Dad’s body?” asked Stan

 

“They can do whatever the fuck they want with it,” Rick replied.

 

Stan dropped the subject, Rick finished his breakfast and went off to his research at Harvard. It was a pretty uneventful day for Stan, until the evening when the intercom buzzed.

 

Stan pressed the button. “Yeah?”

 

“It’s Nina, I’ve got Rick” The terse voice said on the end of line.

 

It was earlier than usual. “Right, I’ll be there.”

 

Stan went to the door and opened it.  Nina was holding Rick by the shoulder and glaring at Stan. Rick was sagging, babbling incoherently, drooling, a dazed look in his eyes.

 

“He had an adverse reaction to the latest batch, Dr. Bell thought it best to have him leave, it was disturbing Dr. Bishop.” Nina said calmly.

 

“Right,” Stan took Rick’s hand and lead him over the threshold. “I’ll put him to bed.”

 

“Watch him carefully,” Nina advised. “He’s…in a bad emotional state. Did anything adversely affect his mood before he came to us?”

 

“Uhhh, he got some news about his Dad… but Rick was happy about it.” Stan said.

 

“Ah,” Nina shook her head. “Goodnight.”

 

So Stan bundled Rick up the shaky stairs to the bedroom, and laid him down. As Stan went to sit on a nearby chair, Rick grabbed his shoulders.

 

“N-n-no don’t leave… hold me.” Rick’s hands were shaky but they held him firmly.

 

Stan sighed, but he kicked off his shoes and laid next to Rick, wrapping his arms around the thin man. Throughout the night he held Rick as the other man, cried, babbled, and twitched. He stroked his back to calm him down. Rick shouted in his strange mixture of Spanish and English.

Over the night Rick spat out fragments in between the yelps, moans and sobs:

 

_“Papa vendría en la noche y la violación de Casandra , que por lo general se hizo el dormido , una noche trató de detener ….”_

 

“Papa broke my arm he broke my arm! It hurt so bad…”

 

_“Grité y grité . Mamá entró, pensé que iba a dejar a papá , pensé que estaría tan molesta que tomamos y lo dejamos . No, ella me llevó a la sala de emergencias . Ella me hizo mentir sobre mi brazo fue a la quiebra .... ella no dejaría que papá , que era …”_

_“Ella se quedó ! Sin espinas , vaca piadosa !_

She let him hurt us and washed the blood from my sister's sheets without saying anything!”

 

“After that I'd just close my eyes... _sy fingir estar dormido cuando papá se coló en la habitación_

_Así que cuando nos mudamos yo mi propio dormitorio,_

I got my own room and it was easier to pretend it didn't happen.”

 

It was all spoken in a high, odd, faint, childish voice. As if Rick was reliving or regressing. From what Stan could piece together with his unpracticed Spanish, Rick’s father had done something …something… horrible to his sister. When they were children Rick tried to stop him, but Rick’s father broke his arm. Rick’s mother didn’t stop it, and In the end neither did Rick. All of this was spilled in the course of one night. Finally exhausted Rick fell asleep, and shortly after Stan did too.

Stan woke up in the morning still tired and feeling creaky as the stairs. Rick was already awake, standing up and stretching in the dawn light.

 

“Hey… Rick about last night…”

 

“It was a bad trip Stan,” Rick said. “That’s all it was.”

 

Stan shrugged. “Yeah I guess so.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't understand Spanish run it through google translate, that helps. If you don't want to... then eventually I'll put what Rick said down here.


	4. The green eyed monster

The stripper was jiggling her tits right in Stan’s face. Rick had paid her extra to give Stan the ‘up close and personal’ treatment. Stan should have been in a better mood, he had a pretty half-naked woman gyrating very close to him with a nice rack. He only managed to just get a chubby. He sighed, gave her some of the money he’d been provided to tip with and waved her away. He heard a woman giggle at the other end of the club and turned his head. Rick had three strippers gathered around him, two on his lap and one sitting at a table, all laughing at some joke. A choking rage filled Stan, there was no explanation for it, he wanted to rip those women away from Rick and… and what?  
They weren’t together, besides he told himself, he liked girls. He was not really into Rick Sanchez, except when completely wasted. But he hated those girls on Rick’s lap with a passion that was scary and confusing. Maybe it was because Rick was ugly: gawky, tall, with a unibrow and wild hair he never combed, yet girls all fell for him. Maybe what Stan needed was to be balls deep in some chick, maybe just being teased by a stripper wasn’t enough. He knew he was attractive, he was still in pretty good shape. Okay, so he didn’t have the rock hard stomach he did when he boxed… maybe he was little soft around the edges… but he was a cool guy, who knew how to please a girl. So why did Rick have all the luck and he didn’t? Also why did he hate the girls for being close to Rick rather the reverse?  
That night he left the strip club, pulled the collar up on his leather jacket and sullenly walked back to the warehouse.

 

Stan was watching a midnight movie on the tv when he heard the warehouse door slam. Rick marched up and stood in front the tv. 

“W-WHAT the fuck STAN?!” He yelled. “We’re supposed to party tonight why the f-f-fuck did you pussy out on me! You’re NOT allow to puss out!”

“I just wasn’t feeling it tonight,” Stan grumbled. “Can’t a guy catch a break?”

Rick strode over to Stan, bent over him and gripped by the lapels, Rick had an odd wiry strength that Stan wasn’t expecting when Rick lifted Stan off his feet.

“No.” Rick growled. “I told you the rules when you got here, you stay here because I let you. Now get off your ass, and let’s have some fun.”

Stan broke out of Rick’s grip and turned away. “It ain’t fair! You look like a nerd and yet all the skirts are swarming around you! It’s no fun!”

“It’s called charm Stan,” Rick said. “I know how to talk to the ladies. You h-have problems. Look I’ll do you a favor, tomorrow when we hit the town… I’ll help you p-pick up a chick right?”

Stan turned back, they probably both needed to get laid real bad. He knew he did but he never was as smooth with the women as he’d like to be. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Hey that’s what f-f-friends are for, right Punchy?” Rick said.

“Yeah,” Stan sighed. 

“I’m going back out,” Rick said. “Don’t wait up.”

“Okay,” Stan said, trying to sound as if he didn’t care.

The next morning Stan awoke to a virtually silent warehouse this meant it was one of the rare mornings that he’d woken up before Rick. Stan having slept in his boxers threw the blanket off his body, he stood up, stretching and scratching. The world was blurry, he’d put in his contacts after his shower, it would get clearer, but he could see enough to get around. He walked up the shaky staircase, heart in his throat, he hated that thing but it was the only way up to Rick’s bedroom and beyond to the bathroom. He opened the door and found Rick passed out on the unmade bed, drooling in his sleep. Stan paused, took a pen off the nightstand and drew a dick on Rick’s forehead or as close to one as he could without his contacts… Rick didn’t stir. Stan chuckled quietly and moved into the bathroom. Rick bragged about how he’d done all the work for this whole room himself. Well Stan didn’t think it was anything to write home about. The sink was one of those plastic laundromat tub ones, with a basic hanger on the wall with a mirror/medicine cabinet combo above it. The toilet wobbled and constantly gurgled in an odd way. As for the shower, well it was just a tiled corner of the room with a drain in the center where a set of pipes plus shower head were riveted to the far right wall. It would groan, shake, sputter and squeak when it was turned on to high or really on at all. He took off his boxers, itched his hairy chest… he considered his body; chest was okay, nice abs and a manly amount of body hair, he was starting to get a bit of pudge in the belly area, arms were pretty good, so were his legs and… well the bit between his legs was much better than average.  
He turned the shower knob for hot, took a step back as he heard the hot water heater churn, thunk, and clunk below. The water would be boiling, reaching through the curtain of hot water he turned the other knob for cold. Now it would be too cold, he adjusted the hot knob… dipped a toe in… and yes it was perfect. He stepped into the stream of water. As he lathered up, he sang to himself, not loud enough to be heard over the shower really but it made him happy. The warm soapy water relaxed him, he considered masturbating… he needed it, though lately his hand had been his only romantic companion. That blow job was three weeks ago now, all they’d done since then had been dry humping and grab-ass when they were wasted.. which really was about as far as he wanted to go with Rick, right? Because neither one of them was gay and Stan was sure that despite Rick’s skills in the blow job department… he, Stan Pines would take any woman no matter how old over any guy even one he found attractive and Rick wasn’t… well he wasn’t conventionally attractive. 

“Mornin’ Palooka.” 

Stan leapt as he heard Rick’s gravelly voice, near him. He turned, Rick was naked and standing in the shower. Stan found himself staring at the other man, Rick still had the pen drawing of a dick on his forehead, but his body was slim and angular it was easy to see his ribs and the jut of his hip bones. His skin was naturally tanned and smooth unlike Stan’s, Rick also only had hair on his head and down by his groin, speaking of which Stan was acutely aware of Rick’s dangling cock.

“What are you doing here?” Stan asked blinking. 

“Showering with a friend to save water,” Rick said sarcastically. “What do you THINK I’m doing?”

“Being a pervy drunk,” Stan replied.

“Right, only I’m not that drunk,” Rick moved very close to Stan. “…not yet…”

“Well, I need to be drunk for this…” Stan muttered, that was a lie, because of the warm tingly feeling in his groin, he knew he was starting to get an erection.

“S-s-so you like what you see?” Rick smirked. “ You’re a grower and show-er… nice.”

Stan wanted to protest make up some lie but as he opened his mouth Rick slipped up next to him and silenced him with a kiss. Rick tasted like booze and vomit but his mouth was insistent and the feeling of his lips welcome. Stan felt the other man’s long thin fingers wrap around his erection, it felt welcome and blissful. He let out a small moan, reaching out he slid his hand around the other man’s cock. Rick let out a sigh of contentment as Stan felt Rick’s cock grow and swell under his fingers. Rick’s strokes were slow and languid at first, but then they got quick and forceful. Stan increased his pace with Ricks. They kissed like hungry beasts devouring each other. Then Rick whispered in Stan’s ear:  
“Fuck me.”

Stan pulled away giving Rick a look of shock and confusion, he shook his head and walked out of the shower. grabbing a clean towel from a hook on the wall he dried himself. Rick was looking at him sullenly. 

“Look, Rick foolin’ around is one thing but …but fucking another man is not my cup of tea.” Stan said. “Or being fucked by one either.”

Rick took a step forward. “Whoa, whoa c’mon Palooka, you were enjoying yourself. Why not just lighten up and have some fun?”

“I’m not —not,” Stan struggled with his mouth Rick and raised his unibrow and gave him a look of irritated disbelief. “—I only do that with ladies!”

“W-w-what’s your hang up, Stan? A hole is just a hole…and I’m the one who’d take the pounding.” Rick commented.

Rick turned off the shower and glided towards Stan. “We both need this…” He was getting closer and closer, hands up raised to touch Stan’s shoulders.

 

Doubt trickled through Stan’s mind, maybe Rick was right. He did find the skinny freak attractive, and it wasn’t like Stan would be the one getting it up the ass. But a stronger, angrier inner voice interceded. No, this was too far! He couldn’t cross that line and consider himself a 100% red blooded macho guy! And with that Stan fled the bathroom, ran down the stairs outside the bedroom and down to the couch. 

 

At breakfast neither one said anything, Rick drank his coffee. Stan sat there playing five finger fillet with a dull chef’s knife, stabbing the table hard over and over again he couldn’t meet Rick’s eyes. 

“Stop that! It’s getting on my last nerve!” Rick shouted. 

Stan glared at him but put the knife down. “I’m not gonna stick my dick up your ass.”

Rick rolled his eyes. “You don’t have too, Stan.”

“And I’m NOT letting you put your dick up my ass. I’ve been to the doctor’s and if it’s anything like that mess—” Stan started.

Rick gave a frustrated growl. “We both need a good screw. H-Handies, necking, and dry humping isn’t e-e-enough for you or me, Punchy.” 

“So we hit the town tonight and pick up a floozy each, that’ll solve our problems.” Stan said.

Rick raised his unibrow. “Sure, if you say so.”

Stan looked his best for that night: contacts in, hair slicked back with product, a dab of after-shave, gold chain around his neck, wide collared shirt with the buttons undone revealing the gold chain and very sexy chest hair, tight jeans with a gold buckled belt, and his trusty leather jacket. He’d be a lady killer tonight. Even Rick made a slight effort he wore a brown sueded leather jacket instead of a lab coat, didn’t smell quite as much of chemicals as he usually did and maybe his hair looked like he had attempted to brush it. So they went out on the town, where there were lots of pretty ladies. Stan used his best pick up lines, all of them went bust. He shelled out money for drinks, they’d thank him for the drinks and talk to someone else! He lit cigarettes for them! He listened to women talk about their pets, hometowns and other crap, but it didn’t get him any closer to getting them naked. However Rick, who still looked like a belligerent stick insect, was getting all sorts of attention. all he would do was sidle up to a chick, say something about her hair, and soon she’d be laughing at his jokes and touching his shoulder. Stan didn’t like it, the women were all over Rick! Usually the girl would have some ditzy friend, and Rick would call Stan over. He and the friend would make awkward small talk while Rick was busy charming the other chick. Once in a while it seemed like the friend would be digging on him. But those girls weren’t… well Stan didn’t want them they weren’t as pretty or had the wrong hair color or … just never Stan’s type, really. His eyes would wander over to Rick…!  
Rick laughing at something or making some remark his tousled dark hair and…. it was always him, why!? Stan didn’t even think about it really, the guy should be such a nerd, but he wasn’t! Then Rick would whisper something to the chick and the lady would look at both of them, shake her head or once the lady slapped Rick.  
It was getting towards the end of the night. Stan had nearly given up hope, he was never gonna get laid! They had just walked into a bar called Connelly’s, there was a cutie sitting at the bar, blonde, petite and curvy. Turning to look at them, she smiled and winked.

“Aw, here we go again,” Stan sighed.

“She was looking at you Stan,” Rick said. “Go get her.”

“Really?”

Stan grinned as he ran a hand through his hair and swaggered up her.

“Hey you like what you see, doll?” He said.

“You bet I do, handsome!” She said with a laugh. “I’m Brenda.”

She stuck out her hand. He took it gently. “Nice to meet you, Brenda. They call me Stan.”

“Oooh you got such big hands!” She cooed. 

She put her palm to his and his fingers dwarfed her petite digits.

“Heh, thanks.” He said. “So what are you up tonight?”

“Me? I just wanna have some fun,” She said smiling at him.

He took the stool beside her. She liked him! She was flirting! This was going well, and yet he looked over at Rick at the end of the bar. Rick nodded and mouthed: ‘go for it.’

“You wanna have fun with me, then?” Stan asked.

She replied with a snorting laugh. “You read my mind Stan.”

He told the corniest joke he could think of, Brenda laughed like he was a comedy star. During which she put a hand on his arm and gave a squeeze.

“You like?” He asked smiling.

“Oooh you got muscles!” She enthused. “I like it.”

“Yeah,” he said with air of nonchalance. “I used to box.”

“Wow, thats so sexy,” She said. 

“Well I try to keep in shape,” He said. 

“Show me some moves Stan.” She said.

He did a quick one-two punch in the air, away from her.

She squealed with delight. That was more like it! He looked over at Rick… who was smoking a cigarette at the other end of the bar.  
Why did he care what Rick thought? He flirted with Brenda some more, soon he’d ask her to go home with him. Maybe Rick would let him use the bed? How would he explain that he lived in freakin’ warehouse, would she even come with him? 

“Hey,” Rick had sidled over next to Brenda. “I see you got yourself a babe, Stan.”

Brenda turned to Stan. “He a friend of yours?”

Stan gave a nervous glance at Rick. “Uhh, yeah.”

Rick introduced himself laying on the charm. Brenda turned to him, rapt as Rick talked, laughing at his jokes. Anger and disappointment started bubbling inside of Stan, how dare he steal…

Then Rick asked; “You seem like a pretty cool chick, B-B-Brenda, I was wondering do you.. swing?”

She scrunched up her face. “What do you mean by swing?”

Rick looked at Stan, smirked and then whispered in Brenda’s ear. She blushed and giggled. “What, you mean… both of you?”

Stan blinked, he hid his shock though, did Rick just ask the girl… for…?

“Yeah so you cool, honey? Rick asked.

She looked from Rick to Stan. “Yeah, I’m cool. Sounds fun!”

 

Rick ordered all of them another round. With the additional alcohol in his system Stan began to adjust to the idea of sharing a girl with Rick. If she wanted both of them, it could be a great time. They would take turns right? Stan glanced nervously at Rick, who simply smirked.  
After the drink they took a cab back to the docks. Brenda was between them looping her arms around both their waists, her hands went lower and Stan jumped as she squeezed his ass. 

He smiled and said: “Heh Heh, frisky, I like that.”

Rick winked at him over her head. This was going to be sweet, she didn’t even seem to mind when they entered the warehouse. She just looked around and commented: “Cool digs, guys! Now where’s the bathroom? I have to pee.”

Rick pointed up at the staircase: “G-go through the bedroom, you can’t miss it.”

. She tripped up the stairs with obviously eagerness, they followed.

Rick turned on the table lamp on the dresser. He shucked his jacket, shirt, pants, and briefs quickly. Stan followed suit, removing all his clothes with ease. Rick was standing on the other side of the double bed, smiling and itching his left side. Nothing special, but Stan felt the lust swell inside of him. A revelation hit him like a freight train; he didn’t want to share this man, and he sure as hell didn’t want whats-her-name. He lunged over the bed and seized Rick by the face. He kissed him furiously and deeply. In an instant Rick had his arms around him, responding to the kiss with a zeal that Stan didn’t expect. The feeling of Rick’s skin against his, his hand tangling through Rick’s messy hair, the scent of his cologne and sweat, it just increased his desire. He needed this man. He grabbed Rick by his slight waist and pulled him onto the bed. Rick’s hands were wrapped around his hardening cock and his lips were against the skinny bastards’ own. It was then that Brenda came out of the bathroom.

“Heehee looks like you two started without me… “ She began, then as seconds ticked by. “Can I get a piece of that…?” As they ignored her and kept at it. “Fine! I know when I’m not wanted!”

She left, she was crying. Stan didn’t care, he had Rick his arms hot and sweaty and his, just his for now. Rick didn’t seem to care that she either. 

“Fuck me,” He whispered. “N-N-no backing out.”

“I don’t wanna back out,” Stan murmured. 

Now all he wanted was to take that thin body before him, slip into that ass and posses him. Rick was laid on his back, his cock erect, grinning up at him, spread out, eager, ready? 

“Give me a minute, Punchy,” Rick said. ‘I need to get something. We can’t just fuck like this.”

“Why not?” Stan asked, he was hard and aching for the other man.

“Y-y-you’re pretty big, I need to prepare.” Rick said.

He rolled over and crawled towards his makeshift nightstand (two stacked milk crates, naturally). He reached in and pulled out a tube of K-Y. He squirted some out onto his fingers and rubbed it on his hole. He gave a relaxed sigh and rolled onto his stomach, then hunched his knees under him.  
Stan hovered over him, waiting as Rick got into position. Stan tried thrusting into the other man, he heard Rick’s breath hitch, then another sigh. He tried again and this time he slid into him easily, the other man gasped. He was so tight! So hot! It felt amazing. He started off gently, not wanting to hurt him, or worse end up at a hospital with an embarrassing story for the doctors to snicker about. Experimenting, he tried one hard thrust. He shoved his whole length into that tight pucker, Rick moaned. 

“Is that good?” he asked, unsure about this whole setup, maybe he was doing it wrong.

“T-t-that’s perfect, rough and fast just the way I like it. Also could you jerk me off while you fuck me?” Rick said.

He took his hand and wrapped it around the other man’s member, starting off again, hard and fast, thrusting into that tightness, filling it and hearing the slight grunts and moans that indicated Rick’s pleasure. It was triumphant, it was glorious, it was ecstasy and he was loving every second of it. His hand keeping pace with the thrusts, Rick would grind into him, and that bumped up the sensation even more. He groaned and gripped the other man’s hips, the feeling was starting to crest… he didn’t want to… he needed to keep going. He rubbed Rick’s cock harder as his rhythm faltered, as the feeling grew overwhelming and he came. He remained hard for enough time to finish off Rick, who orgasmed thickly and messily. Then he pulled out and collapsed on the bed, Rick wiping himself down with a kleenex.

“…OH! You… That… I…” Stan wanted to say something but his heart was thudding and his body still pulsed with pleasure but words didn’t come as the afterglow was still so strong. Rick curled up next to him, licking and sucking his own jizzum off Stan’s fingers and hand.

Rick smiled. “I knew this was a good plan.”

Stan puzzled over what that meant for a minute, before flinging his hairy arm over the scrawny freak’s body and pulling him close. He ran his fingers over Rick’s chest, counting the ribs he could feel. Rick snuggled close, pulling the blanket from under them and then over them. Soon they were both snoring, fast asleep beneath a cheap awful blanket and dirty sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A). Why not a lap-dance? Well in the 70s they were super rare and illegal in most places.
> 
>  
> 
> B). THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR LOVING THIS FIC! When I wake up in the morning and see new kudos I turn on some pop music and do a little sassy dance!


	5. "My memory gets a little hallucination-y towards the end"

In the middle of the night Stan woke up, his eyes itched, he had left his contacts in and had fallen asleep. Opening his eyes he noticed that Rick was gone, and noises were coming from downstairs. He got up, put on his boxers and made his way down the creaking and shaky stairway, eyes still burning and itching, hand on the banister to keep himself steady. Downstairs he found the formica table had residue of tell-tale white powder, and the sound of the coffee percolator bubbling away. Stan removed his lenses, putting them in their case, and laid down on the couch. He could see the right hand corner in the warehouse from here. Rick had used black painted plywood boards and tin to make a darkroom, there was a swag of black fabric covering the entrance. Rick said he needed it to make LSD, so Stan left well enough alone. He didn’t like LSD, not since ’72, and it made Rick money. So he covered himself with a blanket, covered his eyes and went back to sleep. Rick was still buzzing away when Stan woke up in the morning. Rick had paused to drink a cup of coffee, with shaky hands. Stan looked at him over his cereal bowl. 

“About last night—“ Stan began.

Rick belched, added some booze to his coffee, then replied: “It was fun P-P-Punchy, that’s all. Don’t start falling in love with me or anything—_”

“—I’m not going to ya skinny jerk! That’s what I was going to say.” Stan said.

Rick blinked. “S-so what you’re saying is were on the same page?”

"Yeah,” Stan blinked and gave a chuckle. “That’s about it, it’s fun but I’m not going to- to-to …..do whatever queers do instead of getting married.”

“T-T-Then you don’t mind me bringing home tail, right Punchy?” Rick said.

“Nope,” Stan lied. “Cuz my girl will be hotter.”

They gave each other a side- eye, they laughed. Rick jokingly punched Stan on the upper-arm, Stan returned it a little harder, Rick punched him even harder, Stan nailed Rick in the arm. Then Rick lunged, tackling Stan, sending them rolling around the hard floor, wrestling half playfully and half in earnest. Stan could feel Rick’s hard on pressing against his stomach, when he flipped the other man and got him in a half-nelson. Suddenly the inter-com buzzed loudly. 

“It’s Nancy— I’m here to buy drugss!” Said a familiar voice, in a sing-song tone.

It buzzed again.

“Hey, Stan-The-Man, Rick-The-Brain! It’s Wentworth, open up!” 

Stan released Rick from the half nelson, Rick coughed and they both got off the floor, dusting themselves off. 

“Oh geez, both of them? This early?” Stan sighed.

“C-c-concert season S-stan, it’s coming.” Rick said. “At least Chad hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Yeah,” Stan sighed again. “Thank fuck for small favors.”

“What you got against him anyhow, Palooka?” Rick asked. As they walked towards the door.

Stan gave a shrug and glared at Rick. “I just don’t like hippies, okay?”

He was not discussing Thistle Downe, Carla, his fear of sugar cubes or any thing that happened that summer of 1972. Rick didn’t need to know.  
Rick pulled open the door of the warehouse, Nancy O’Grady and Wentworth Robinson stepped in. The two drug dealers made quite a contrasting pair; Nancy short, angry, wearing heavy dark make up,with her oversized army jacket, men’s undershirt, safety pin pierced nose and bright red spiked hair vs. tall and chill Wentworth with his afro, round sunglasses, green shirt and burnt orange pants. Stan always thought Nancy would be pretty if she dressed like a normal girl and didn’t always look like she was about to murder someone. 

“Hey doofuses,” Nancy said with affection. 

“Rick! Stan!” Wentworth said. “How’s it hanging?”

 

“All’s good in the neighborhood!” Rick responded to Wentworth before Stand could.

Rick and Wentworth did an elaborate high five/handshake that seemed to take at least two minutes, as Stan closed the door.

Nancy rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Enough secret handshakes, this isn’t the royal order of the holy mackerel.” 

“Don’t be sore, Nance,” Wentworth said. “I’ll teach it to you some day, you’re cool.”

Nancy muttered something but cracked a smile. 

“N-n-now let’s get down to business of why you’re here,” Rick said with a belch. “You want acid right?”

“Yeah,” Said Wentworth

“No, I’m here for the tea party,” Nancy added with sarcasm.

“Then step right up, folks!” Stan added jovially. 

So the they went to the kitchen area where Rick unlocked the standing freezer and took out four sheets of blotter acid. All them decorated with little devil horned smiley faces. 

Wentworth’s shoulders slumped when he saw it and Nancy seemed to tense up. 

“Not cool, man,” Wentworth sighed.

“That’s it?!” Nancy squawked.

“L-L-look that’s all I have ready,” Rick said. “You know this is the shit, you know it’s what your customers want. So stop complaining and pony up!”

 

Wentworth reached for his wallet, shaking his head. But Nancy’s scowl deepened, she stiffened and growled. She marched up to Rick and got in his face:

“Look shitheels!” She shouted. “I saw you had more than that in freezer! It’s my ass on the line here, I need this money! I got bills and rent!” 

 

“That’s not for p-p-public consumption, not yet,” Rick said coolly. “Still in the testing stage. And s-s-since when do you pay rent? You squat in an abandoned factory.”

“Hey, chill Nance, chill out,” Wentworth said putting a hand on Nancy’s shoulder.

She jerked out of his touch. “FUCK ALL OF YOU!” She shouted, she shivered slightly. “DON’T FUCKING STIFF ME ON THIS, I NEED MORE, I NEED TO MAKE MONEY!”

Stan stepped in front of her. “Hey, Nancy you know this is quality right?”

She was about to spit back a reply, but she shivered again, took a breath and seemed to calm down. “Yeah Stan, it is, strong and no ever has bad trips, or ends up in the hospital, but—“ 

Stan smiled. “It’s simple then, Nancy! You charge the suckers more! After all it’s quality, they are paying for the quality of it. You tell ‘em if they want shitty fuck-you-up acid, they go to someone else. Trust me, they won’t. You’ll be rollin’ in dough.”

Nancy stared up at him, he could see the gears in her head turning, see her thinking about what he said. She slowly broke into a grin. “Yeah, that’s it…!”

“Stan-the-MAN!” Wentworth chorused. 

Stan laughed. “You know it!”

So his gift hadn’t left him! His silver tongued bullshitting, had worked! He’d pulled all that out of his ass and it worked! Even Rick was smiling at him. Stan was wondering why Nancy was shivering in the spring time, though maybe it was because she was small and thin but it was odd.

“Okay then? Y-you two going to pay for this now?” Rick said. “I-i-it’s q-q-quality, after all.”

Wentworth nodded and pulled a roll from his wallet and handed it to Rick who began to count it.

Nancy took a wad from one the pockets her army jacket and gave it to Stan,who quickly tallied it up.

“Nancy!” Stan barked. “You’re short some money!”

“That’s all I got!” Nancy protested. 

“If you have anything else, we’ll take it,” Rick added, giving her a look. “Annny-thing Nancy. You know our policy, drugs for drugs.”

Nancy hesitated and then reached in army jacket and pulled out what looked like a small glass vial filled with…brown sugar? She put on the table. “Take it! It’s pure, it’s good!”

“Oooh Nancy given it up! Thanks!” Rick said.

“Why you so happy about brown sugar?” Stan asked puzzled for once. 

All the rest of them burst out laughing and kept laughing for while. 

“It ain’t brown sugar, Stan!’ Wentworth said. “It’s brownstone!”

“Oh,” Stan said still puzzled. “Right… what’s the difference?”

More laughter. 

“Stan, it’s heroin. And it’ll get us sky high.” Rick said. “Thanks Nancy, I’ll save this for a special occasion if it’s as good as you say.”

Rick gave the two dealers their sheets of acid and they left.  
“You had more,” Stan said as Rick was putting the vial of heroin into his lab coat. “I saw in the freezer too.”

Rick’s unibrow furrowed. “Palooka, I have more but as I said it needs to be tested, and I can’t test on anyone”

“So get some chumps in here and test it,” Stan sighed. “I’ll watch ’em so they don’t mess with your stuff. You know enough—“

“—this is special stuff, Palooka, I can’t just be testing it on anyone, this the kind of thing Bell and Bishop are cooking up better in fact,” Rick said with a belch. “Besides you remember those rules you agreed to right? What was rule number five?”

Stan’s eyes widened and he felt panic rising inside of him. “LOOK, test anything else you want on me, not acid, I don’t do acid!”

Stan turned and walked away trying to conceal the growing fear he felt.

“Oooh, did someone have a bad trip?” Rick said with as much tact as a punch to the nose.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Stan growled.

Rick moved quicker than Stan thought and was in front of him, in his face. “I don’t want to hear about what happened. But it’s the rules, you want to stay here right?”

Stan glowered at him all furrowed brow and down turned mouth. “Yeah, yeah… maybe I need a bit of liquid courage. You’ll be watching me the whole time right?”

Rick smiled. “Glad you c-c-came around, Punchy… be ready tonight...” 

“Right, I gotta buy some more cigs. See ya later.” Stan said and walked out of the warehouse.

He tried not to think about what was waiting for him back at the warehouse, or anything really. He bought the cigarettes, smoked them, read the paper in the library, and visited a guy he knew who promised to hook him up with a job in demolition. He tried not think of what happened back in the summer of ’72 or Carla Mccorkle, but he did. He couldn’t help it, and the dread of the experiment that night grew heavy inside of him. Him and Carla had been seeing each other since high school, neither of their parents really approved, his folks weren’t crazy about him hooking up with a shiksa, she was Irish Catholic after all. He’d given her a promise ring senior year, they’d been on and off for the better part of a decade and a half. By 1972 the promise ring was tarnished by the years and the band was wearing thin, so was Carla’s patience with him, though he didn’t know it. He’d been busy: going into the vacuum business with his brother, running from the draft in Europe, and finally having a boxing career. Marrying Carla could wait and she would wait, right? She was a nice girl so she would. As far he knew she’d only been with him… right… of course! She was good girl! As for himself well… he was a guy…. she forgave him and besides he loved only her, that was what mattered right? The summer of ‘72 their relationship had been ‘on’ for him, he’d gotten his almost real diamond engagement ring from the pawn shop, but then she started talking about her new ‘friend’ some hippie asshole named Thistle Downe. She had been spending a lot of time with this character and Stan didn’t like it. Carla had changed, she talked about hippie nonsense and hid her impressive legs in a pair of bellbottom jeans.  
Of course that would stop when Stan popped the question, which he was going too. But that night something happened. She’d told him that Thistle Downe had ‘turned her on to acid’ and that it was really ‘groovy’. Carla asked him to try it with her, saying that it would bring them closer than ever. And he’d thought why not? They’d smoked weed together and that was no big deal. So he popped this sugar cube in his mouth and it went to hell quickly. Yes, he saw rainbows, but they turned into snakes and tried to strangle him. Fourteen hours and a trip to a hospital with his brother later, the nightmare roller coaster was over. And so was everything with Carla. She ended up going out with Thistle Downe, almost immediately. Stan had tried to win her back, but…. driving Thistle Downe’s van into a ravine, while raving about how the hippie freak had brainwashed her, didn’t exactly drive Carla back into arms…. he might still have been tripping when that happened… Well Carla and Thistle Down (who got another van) went off to follow the Grateful Dead. All he had left was the almost diamond ring and acid flashbacks.  
Now what? He was going to do it again?! Maybe this time it would be better, after all Rick was a scientist and he’d be monitoring the whole thing, with wires and machines that went beep, Stan would be fine… he was still scared shitless, which from what he understood was not the right mindset for dropping acid. 

He bought a liter of scotch at a liquor store and took swigs from it on the way home. The liquor wasn’t as good at quieting his fears as he hoped. He was little beyond slightly drunk but the visions of rainbow serpents danced in his mind, making his guts churn and his nerves quiver.  
So he stumbled around the docks, trying to talk himself into it, until the air became chilly and the sun had set. He took one last gulp of the scotch, squared his shoulders, set his jaw and walked towards the warehouse he called home. He wasn’t expecting the yellow light spilling from all windows and the funk music blasting. Normally he loved disco and funk but in his current frame of mind…it didn’t seem right. Stan hesitantly pressed the buzzer:

“Yeah?” 

“It’s me…”

Stan heard the locks clicking open, then Rick grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him inside.

“Y-y—you smell like a distillery Punchy,” Rick said. “That’s—“

“—What I said I needed booze for this-”

“—it’ll just make the trip last longer dumb-ass!” 

“—shit.”

“I know you’re scared, I-I have a solution for that…” Rick said and he pulled out a ginormous blue glass bong, Stan had never seen before. “Do hits of this until you chill the fuck out. It’s packed with a strain of hydroponic weed…that’s really r-r-really potent. It’ll get you wrecked.”

Stan gave him a look, his brother was a scientist and while he didn’t pay much attention to that crap, from what he knew a drunk and stoned test subject wasn’t exactly… a good idea.

Rick glared back at him. “Yeah, yeah not accurate. I don’t have the budget to get orderlies to strap you to a table to test it on you sober, Stan. D-d-don’t say anything, it would happen.”

Stan shrugged, sat on the couch and lit the bong, after a hit he was calm, two hits, his nerves had stopped jangling… three his lips went numb and after four he stopped caring about nearly anything… after five he was sure he was ready, but he wasn’t sure if his legs still worked or who he was. 

“Alright, gimme it.” He said.

“Open your mouth Punchy,” Rick said.

Stan did so and Rick placed one square of blotter acid on his tongue. He swallowed it down, it had a slightly bitter acrid taste. He blinked. 

“Heh heh.. nothin’ it’s a dud.”

“W-w-wait for it, Palooka.” 

Stan found himself staring at walls, as their edges become metallic and transparent shapes began to swim in front his of eyes. “Whoa… it’s kickin’ in.”

“See I told ya Palooka.”

The edges of the shapes became metallic rainbows, he could see the music playing, the waves of sound coming from the speakers, it wasn’t terrible so far.  
“Rick, this is great! I’m seeing all this amazing stuff!”

“So you’re just hallucinating?” Rick sighed. The edges of Rick’s body were glowing black and red what had Carla said about that, it was called an ‘aura?’

 

“Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen?”

“Not with this stuff. I’m upping your dosage.” Rick wandered away leaving trails of black and red and Stan stared at his hands he could see his pulse!

Rick was at his right ear. 

“Wha?”

“I said give me your arm, Stan. You’ll feel a slight pinch.”

Stan offered up his right arm. He wasn’t looking when Rick did something… that pinched. Things got intense after that.  
“Oooh.”

“Tell me what you see, Stan.” Rick said in a voice that was very calm.

The walls melted away, all the walls, he could see into people’s houses. The electric lights of each dwelling glowing and pulsing. So much movement and action… he could see things moving in the darkness outside of the light. They were unclean things, that meant nothing but harm, pressing themselves against the edges of the shadows as if the light would hurt them… waiting and hungry. He wanted to run and hide but he found he couldn’t move, his legs were like lead weights. There was so many horrible, monstrous, things in the shadows. There was a great dark shape with a head like a worm with the torso of a man and it… had the body of a serpent…all black…He looked away through a white glowing window and he saw himself but it wasn’t him… it was him but that him was sitting in Boca with Mom, eating. Through another glowing white window he saw another Stan, that wasn’t him on tv winning the heavyweight championship! In yet another he was in a jungle dressed in camouflage. He told all of what he was seeing to Rick.

“It’s working, Stan.” Rick said. “You’re seeing other realities, other versions of yourself.”

“It is?” said Stan.

He made a mistake he looked into the darkness, there it was again the crawling monster! But it didn’t look the same, instead he saw a dark skinned Pharaoh striding towards him, a sinister grin on his face. He looked away, but movement drew him back. The figure was all black but for the mouthless one eyed mask of glowing garish canary yellow shaped like a triangle, it smiled with no mouth and said in a cheery voice: ‘See you soon Stan!’

HOW COULD IT SPEAK IT HAD NO MOUTH!

“Don’t pay attention to that a-a-asshole,” Rick said. 

Rick was sitting in the darkness beside him. 

“Wha? You’re not supposed to be here!”

Rick grinned. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun, Stan. This stuff can connect two m-minds Stan I had to test it out if that was true”

The thing in the triangle mask jigged. ‘Well, well, well, Rick and Stan! This is a treat!’

It advanced on them, Stan felt the fear inside of him double, running over his nerves like cold spiders. “Rick! You just fucked us both!”

“Calm down,” Rick said “In the mind a-a-a-nything is possible.”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s lying you know how much he lies Stan.” said the thing in the yellow mask.

’SHUT UP!” Rick pulled a flaming sword from his lab coat and sliced the monster in two.

It screamed, then re-formed and advanced. “You think that’ll work it’s cute!” 

It’s arm grew long and snakelike reaching for Rick’s sword, which it snuffed out with a touch and broke into fragments.

“Anything huh?” Stan replied. He grinned, his brass knuckles appeared on his hands and each knuckle became a spike. “LEFT HOOK!” He bellowed and socked the monster in the jaw sending it ass over tea kettle.

Rick had a knife in his hand he pinned the monster to the void and began to stab it repeatedly, it spewed yellow blood. Stan kicked at it, until the body vanished. 

The thing in the yellow mask was standing above them enormous and cackling: “Well, it’s been nice! Smell you later!”

It vanished in clap of white lightening. The crackle of the record player and the noise of the docks made them blink and look around. The trip had taken all night and most of the morning, they were still coming down but at least they were not trapped in that void between worlds anymore. They kept seeing things for hours, transparent shapes with metal edges, walls that seemed to breath, but it was minor compared what had just happened.

Later, Stan and Rick were sitting at the formica table once again eating some soup. “What was that thing?” Stan asked. “And what did it mean?”

“I’ve seen it before, Stan. Whatever it wants isn’t good, but I know one thing, it’s name: Bill.” Rick replied. “It just likes to fuck with people it doesn’t mean anything. It’s harmless can’t enter r-r-reality.” 

“I hope I never see that thing again my life,” Stan shuddered. “You’re not going to sell that LSD, are you?”

Rick raised a unibrow and seemed to think for a minute, considering “No.”


	6. Prank war

It all started with little things. Stan would drink all the milk, ’forget’ and put the empty carton back in the fridge. He’d watch as Rick would go to fridge for the milk, pick it up to find an empty carton and then: 

“AHAHAHAHAHA!”

“Y-y-you think that’s funny Punchy? Just you wait… just you wait...”

“What are you gonna do about it Brain?” 

And it would seem nothing would happen. Rick would go make his inventions or do research at Harvard. Stan would leave for the day, after all he had that demolition job now. At around five Stan would come home sore as anything, shower, then collapse onto the sofa. He and Rick rarely shared the bed, it got too hot, also Rick stole the covers when it was cold and drooled. So that night Stan settled down on the couch, took out his contacts and fell into a deep sleep. Six in the morning an explosion of sound made him wake up with a scream. 

“WHA?!”

Rick smiled at him from beside the speakers. “I told you I’d get you, Stan. Now listen to t-t-this! Nancy dropped off this tape i-i-t’s revolutionary, Stan… it’s—“

Stan listened, he heard a harsh sounding voice shouting obscenities over badly played electric guitar.

“—It’s crap! What the hell is it, cuz it ain’t music!”

“It’s called punk, Stan, and it’s brand new. You’d better get used to it, it’s all I’m playing from now on.”

 

Stan covered his ears with his hands and buried his head in the couch. The music continued on and Rick had begun to dance. Stan grit his teeth, tucked his knees up to his chest and tried not to pay any attention he figured the busting stereo would get him kicked him out.  
A bleary hour later he went to the breakfast table, poured himself some coffee and poured whiskey and milk on his cereal. The whiskey was a happy accident but it got him going. He looked at the sugar shaker. He got an idea, a smile crept across his face. A little while later he was eating his very irish lucky charms Rick walked over still humming that awful punk tune… Stan watched as Rick picked up the sugar shaker and went to pour it in his coffee. As he tipped it over the lid slipped off spilling a ton of white crystals into Rick’s coffee.

”AHAHAHAHA!” Stan laughed. “GOTCHA!”

“I-I-I should’ve known you’d try something like this, Stan.” Rick grumbled, then he took a sip of the coffee, made a face and spit it out. “Salt?!”

Stan bellowed with laughter. “I am a prank master!”

Rick rolled his eyes. “Yuk it up, you’ll never see the next one coming, Punchy.”

“Bring it!”

“Oh you think you can handle it?!”

“Shit yeah!”

They were leaning over the table almost eyeball to eyeball. Rick bridged the distance and kissed Stan, biting his lip. Stan returned the gesture, biting down harder. Rick pulled back and laughed. 

”You’ll see, you’ll see, Punchy.”

“You’re lip is bleeding a lot…”

“So?” 

 

“You might want to wipe that up before heading to work.” 

Rick narrowed his eyes “No.” Then he gave a slurp, sucking the blood back in his mouth, then he swallowed it. 

“Eww.” Stan shuddered. 

He finished his whiskey cereal, coffee, and left for work. The boss was a slave driver who wanted them there bright and early. Five days had passed and things went back to normal, or as normal as they could with the mad science, drug deals, and constant playing of punk music. Stan destroyed one cassette but Nancy had given Rick spares, and Stan couldn’t find where Rick had hidden them. Anyhow he was too tired from work to care much, just coming home to a beer and the tv was enough for him that week. Saturday afternoon, He’d gotten up for something or other, when Rick bumped into him while carrying a glass beaker full of some clear liquid.

“Hey watch it!” Stan said, his shirt had gotten drenched.

Rick’s eyes went wide (wider than usual) and his mouth dropped open. “Oh fuck! Oh God, Stan! T-t-t-this is bad! Real bad! That was tetracholric acid! I’m so sorry.”

“Tetra—wha?”

“A very powerful acid, but it acts very slowly.” Rick said in earnest. “It can eat through bone and even cardiac muscle.”

 

“SHIT!! I GOTTA GET TO THE HOSPITAL!” Stan howled, ripping off his shirt.

“It starts slowly, i slight tingling in the affected area…” Rick said calmly.

Stan thought he felt a slight tingling on his chest. “Oh god…”

“Then it starts to itch and burn.” Rick said.

Stan was lazily scratching his chest when Rick said this, then stopped. IT did itch and burn…”Oh fuck…!”

Rick gazed at him. “In a hour it’ll eat through your skin, Stan then your muscle, bones and then you’re heart, then you’ll be dead!”

Stan shook Rick. “C’MON WE HAVE TO GET TO THE HOSPITAL!”

Rick sighed. “Too l-l-late for that…there is no official cure for it.”

“I’M GOING TO DIE?!”

Rick paused and stared at Stan. “Well fructose and pectin has been known to halt the acid entirely in stages as early as this.”

“Fructose? Pectin?! What are those things, I need’em! Give‘em to me!”

“You’re lucky Punchy, they can be found in one source…jam.” 

“Jam?!” Stan wasn’t thinking his chest was itching and burning.. “We have that!”

He ran to the kitchen grabbed the jar of strawberry jam, Rick followed.  
“What you do, Stan, is you rub it on the affected area.”

Stan opened the jam took out a glob and began to smear his chest with it, cursing furiously as he was rubbing. He looked over at Rick, and saw.. Rick was smiling widely. He stopped. 

 

“RICK SANCHEZ, YOU SKINNY BASTARD…!”

Rick laughed. “There is no such thing as tetracholric acid! It’s just a tiny bit of bleach and water!”

 

“I’LL -I’LL… GET YOU!”

“Wash the jam off your chest first, Stan.”

 

Stan glared, realizing that Rick was right, his revenge would have to wait. He did need a shower, also he needed to plan how exactly he’d get Rick back. Two days later he got a package from his Mother, along with a note asking why he didn’t call or write. The note also said that she’d been clearing out his childhood home and found a box of his old things in the attic, so she sent them to him. There was some baseball cards, a deck of cards, some old warped board games, and a pair of lace up roller skates from his early twenties. He practiced the three card monte game with the cards, and examined the baseball cards which were all bent. None of the cards were of any value, and the skates… He recalled going to the roller disco with Carla on hot summer nights. He chuckled and grinned, of course! That’s exactly how he’d get back at Rick. As per usual on Fridays they went bar hopping, but Stan held back, it took a lot of effort but he nursed his drinks, took it slow and only did shots when Rick demanded. By the end of the night Rick was plastered, but he was still mostly sober. Well more sober then Rick, who had long passed the point of being coherent or walking without help. 

Rick’s arm was slung over Stan’s shoulder as they entered the warehouse, Rick couldn’t stand on his own, so like many nights before Stan was helping Rick walk the short distance up to his bed.

“I-I love you Stan,” Rick slurred. “You’re my best, best friend…”

“Yeah, yeah you’re drunk..” Stan mumbled.

“No… I really r-r-really love you,” Rick said as they mounted the stairs.  
He gave Stan a sloppy kiss that nearly toppled them.

“Geez! You want to kill us!” Stan grumbled.

“No n-n-n-no! I don’t wanna die…” Rick burbled.

 

Stan opened the door to the bedroom, Rick kissed him again while mussing his hair. “Come on, Rick… you’re too drunk.”

“I need sex Stan… I need to get laid… c’mon…” Rick slurred.

Stan shoved Rick off his shoulder and onto the bed. He considered fucking him in this state, but Rick was already passed out. Stan chuckled, now it was time for his prank. He went down stairs and got the roller skates. Rick mumbled in his sleep as Stan took off his shoes and then his socks. He muttered something as Stan gently, slowly slipped the roller skates on and did up the laces. Now he just had to wait a few hours. When the sun rose, Stan was up, he had an air horn just for this. He went up those horrible creaky stairs back to the bedroom. Rick was still passed out snoring. Stan went up next to Rick’s head and pressed the air horn.

“GAAAAHH!” Rick screamed as he woke up.  
He went to stand, slid and fell hard on his ass.

“AHAHAHAHAHA!” Stan laughed.

Rick scowled at him and attempted to get back up, failed, then rubbed his back side.  
“Okay, Stan, you proved y-y-your point now get me out of these things before I break my neck.”

“Admit I’ve won!” Stan crowed. 

“Untie the laces, Punchy,” Rick grumbled trying to stand up yet again. 

Stan helped him onto the bed, and untied the laces. Rick kicked him in the head, laughed and ran down the stairs calling “I’ll never admit you w-w-won Palooka! BECAUSE I’M SO MUCH SMARTER THAN YOU, PUNCHY!”

Stan was holding his head and trying to stand by the time Rick had raced back to the bottom of the stairs and was doing a sassy dance. Of all the fucking nerve! Of all the shitty behavior! 

“YOU SCRAWNY WASTE OF SKIN!” Stan hollered and gave chase. Rick had stopped to vomit in the sink, evidently the hangover had caught up with him. 

Stan ran up and grabbed Rick, wrapping one arm around his friend’s neck and the other around his waist, putting him in a choke hold.

“Oh geez,” Rick mumbled and gasped. 

“You give up?” Stan whispered. 

“Y-yeah… let me breathe,” Rick pleaded. 

Stan released him and Rick reeled, gasping, he spun and collapsed at the formica table. 

“You asshole, you brought it on yer self you know,” Stan grumbled pouring two cups of coffee, one into a mug that read : UNIT and one marked TORCHWOOD.

Rick glared at him but took the coffee. “You know you should watch out Punchy. Y-you don’t know your own strength.”

They sullenly drank their coffee, Rick pulled out some coke from his lab coat and poured it on the table. He cut some lines. “Breakfast of champions, Punchy?”

Stan nodded, Rick did two lines, Stan did two lines. Now that woke you up, it was like being punched awake in the nose, in a good way. Stan took out the old chef’s knife and began to sing to himself: “I’ve got all my fingers, the knife goes chop, chop chop…” As he played five finger filet.

Rick sighed: “Excellent way to start a weekend… loser.”

Stan stuck the knife in the table and scowled at him. “Whattaya mean? YOU LOST!” 

 

Rick got up, did that sassy ass dance and said: “Nope, I n-n-never admitted YOU were the winner. Fuck you Punchy…”

“YOU ASSHOLE!” Stan growled and got to his feet.

Rick ran and he gave chase, that skinny bastard, that arrogant prick! He’d get him and he’d show him! He’d show him alright! He was catching up when Rick stopped, turned, and wagged his ass at him…and a switch went off in Stan’s hindbrain, when he got Rick… he’d fuck him up, and fuck him! Then Rick began to run again …Ohh that fucking RICK! Then the skinny freak ran up the stairs into the bedroom, where Stan followed, hating every creaky step on those fucking murder stairs. When he opened the door he was greeted by Rick’s fist, he dodged that punch, but not the next. He pulled back and gave Rick the old left hook, then the right! Then the skinny bastard kicked him in the shins. He tackled Rick onto the bed, the other man’s body hot and struggling under him. Rick glared at Stan defiantly and kissed him with shocking fierceness, all teeth and tongue. They kissed over and over again, lips bloody and growling. 

“Are you as turned on as I am, Stan?” Rick said.

“…Yeah,” Stan muttered and took off his pants and boxers.

Rick turned over, Stan helped remove Rick’s clothing, flinging them in different places, he didn’t care. He got out the lube, rubbed it on and flipped the skinny man over, shoving his dick in that tight hot hole. Stan thrust hard and rapidly, each stroke rewarded by some moan or growl from Rick. Both hands were wrapped around Rick’s neck, just choking hard enough, but Stan was in control, even as the pleasure built, even as Rick ground his skinny hips against his groin. Or at least he thought he was, he moved one hand down to Rick’s hard cock and jerked it as he fucked the skinny bastard, it was amazing, he was flying again, it was electric and alive and raw and real. He gave a deep thrust as he felt himself reach climax, he may have squeezed Rick’s neck too tight then, because he could hear gagging and gasping. But Rick had already come twice. Pulling out afterward he rolled off and looked at the other man. Hair mussed more than usual, eyes glazed, and red marks around his neck, Rick was actually smiling.  
“F-f-fuck you,” Rick murmured at him in an affectionate tone. 

“I won…” Stan said with a smile, scooting to the side of the bed to get a cigar and a lighter.  
He took a drag inhaling, feeling like god or a king.

“No, I did.” Rick said. 

Stan was still hard when Rick mounted him and began to ride him for round two, Stan was about to argue back…but the feeling of it overtook him and he just took another drag and laughed. Maybe he’d let Rick have this one.


	7. vacation in NYC: Part 1

The bruises on Rick’s neck were fading and more often than not Stan found himself sleeping in the same bed as Rick, even though he stole the covers and drooled. Not for that of course, but because there was nothing better then getting a bj in the morning or having sex to start the day. Usually it was so early when it all went down that Stan would roll over and go back to sleep again and wake up to a puddle of drool on the pillow next to him with no Rick. These days Rick seemed to be always working on something or other. Stan would leave for work and Rick would still be there welding something or making some robot. He never seemed to go to work. 

“Did you get fired?” Stan asked one evening over a meal of burgers and fries from a fast food place.

“No, Bell and Bishops’ research is a dead end, I quit, they are going about the whole thing ass backwards,” Rick said.

“So you have no job.” Stan said sipping his soda.

“Yeah…but don’t -don’t get your panties in a knot.” Rick replied stealing a handful of fries. “I own the fucking warehouse and I have another position lined up.”

“Good,” Stan said and munched on his hamburger.

“The people I’m going to be working with they -they are on the right track, what I should have been doing all along….” Rick said emptying his flask into the soda cup. 

Stan wasn’t interested in the rest of what Rick was saying, it was full of techno babble, the kind of thing his brother might say, and that bored Stan to tears. “Yeah, uh-huh, that’s… science-y… right?”

Rick put down his burger. “Ooh sorry I’m boring you, Punchy.”

Stan was stealing the last of Rick’s fries and had quickly stuffed them all in his mouth. “hmmph-mmmfh…”

“But-but enough pleasantries, let’s get fucked up.” 

Stan swallowed his mouthful of fries. “Heheh. That’s what I like to hear.”

With a sweeping motion Rick cleared off the ‘coffee table’ and went to get the big long mirror they did lines off sometimes.

 

“Aren’t we going to hit a few bars first?” Stan asked.  
Rick went off to get a mirror.

“N-no because this is special occasion, tomorrow we are going to New York City and we are gonna spend the weekend getting wrecked.” Rick said.

“This new thing, it’s in New York?” Stan asked.

“No, but I’m sick of bean town, Punchy.” Rick said. “It’s in a town called Arkham, in this state, I’m moving.”

Rick put the mirror down on the coffee table and removed a straight razor from his lab coat and took out the vial of brown powdery heroin from another pocket. He began to cut it very finely with the razor, making needle thin lines on the mirror.

“What about me?” Stan asked. 

“Well you got a job, Stan. Find a place to rent if you wanna stay here. I’m not your boyfriend.” Rick said. “I’m not your keeper.”

“Yeah, I know… but do you need a roommate?” Stan asked.

Rick gave him a long hard look and shrugged. “If you want to… I’m not gonna stop you, Palooka.”

“Those itty-bitty things gonna get me high… heh.” Said Stan.

“You cut lines of horse much thinner than coke, Punchy. You wanna try it?” Said Rick.

“Yeah, why not?” Stan began to lower his head.

“Whoa, whoa… me first. You’re gonna get sick.”

“How you do know?”

“Because that’s what happens when you do it the first time.”

Rick did a line first and sat back. He seemed to uncoil, all the tenseness and energy that Stan usually associated with Rick vanished, his eyes grew sleepy. So Stan lowered his head and did a line, he felt the rush you get with snorting anything and an odd salty taste in the back of his mouth. At first nothing, then a wave of relaxation came over him, an intense feeling of happiness, warmth and a sort of numbness, it was better than the best weed. He didn’t care about anything suddenly. However his guts weren’t having any of this peace and love bullshit apparently because he had to vomit. He got up and walked the short distance to the kitchen sink, which seemed a bit like an epic journey, holding it down was a challenge and he puked up all the fast food he’d been enjoying earlier. He walked back to the couch where Rick was sprawled out now. 

“Wow.” He said.

“Told ya, Punchy.” Rick replied slowly.

Rick wrapped his arms around Stan and they kissed, in that odd slow numb world it was like being in a warm bath, but at the same time Stan could hardly feel the other man’s lips and tongue against his. The high began to dissipate and they both did the other line. Then came the stomach cramps, again… and the uncontrollable itchy feeling like insects crawling on his skin. So it would take time to do another pin thin line. 

“How does this work… there doesn’t look like much of it,” Stan mused.

“It’s strong, Nance was right. The good stuff.” Rick sighed contentedly. 

They ended the evening in bed, naked and humping away, nothing was happening though it was like a sensation through a heavy sheet, though they both were hard it was difficult to get off. They used hands and mouths on each other but nothing much happened, eventually they fell asleep.  
The next day Stan woke up groggy and nauseous. Rick was already awake, moving around the darkened bedroom while Stan stared at him blearily for a few moments.

“Get up and get packed our train leaves in two hours.” Rick said, lighting a cigarette in the gloom.

“Oy,” Stan sighed, rubbing his head. “Give me time to wake up. I feel terrible.”

“So? Get packed, we’re going to be there a day and half you need to look s—s-sharp, you need to look sharp, Stan.” Rick said and took a drag from the cigarette.

 

Stan got up, stretched, itched, showered, got dressed, and packed his clothing, trying to go fast but feeling the way he did and with Rick breathing down his neck it was hard. However they managed to get a cab and get to the station with time to spare. The train ride was quiet, Stan got some coffee from the dining car and Rick stared out the window silent and sullen the whole trip down. They arrived at Grand Central Station, who else was there to greet them but Nancy. 

“Heeeey, you two made it!” She called out cheerily. She had done her now ice blue hair in a mohawk, her make up had gotten darker, her nose was still pierced by a safety pin, despite her outrageous appearance she seemed to have shrunk, her eyes looked sunken and she was so skinny she made Rick look chubby. 

 

“Nance, How’s New York been treatin’ you!?” Rick said.

She gave a sniff and a shiver. “Good, Good.”

At this point Stan realized why he hadn’t seen Nancy for the better part of a month. “You moved here?”

“Yeah, doofus,” She said with a joking casualness. “New York City is where it’s at. Glad I finally got you two to come down. I missed youse guys.”

“N-Nance found us a hotel, that’s got a prime location near all the hotspots.” Rick said.

“Well near the only one that matters,” Nancy corrected. “Rick you gotta go to CBGB, a band called The Ramones is playing there tonight.”

“What kinda music do they play?” Stan asked.

“The good kind,” Nancy said.

“Oh,” Stan sighed. “That punk crap.”

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to Punchy,” Rick said. “This is a big city there are l-l-lots of things to do.”

They took the subway down to the east village. The hotel Nancy had gotten them was a rat trap called the ‘blue diamond.’ The man at the front desk was behind plate glass and Rick had to slide the money through a tray. Honestly the guy looked surprised that they were paying for the whole night. It a was double room, that fooled no one, even Nancy had long ago figured out what Stan and Rick were up too. Stan sorta wished he’d packed a sleeping bag so he didn’t have to touch the sheets on the bed. There was a cockroach on it’s back dying in the tub in the bathroom, and unflushed cigarette butts yellowing in the toilet bowl.

 

“Hey,” Stan said emerging from the bathroom. “Why can’t we stay with you?”

“Because,” Nancy said. “Rick knows why,” and glared at him.

Rick rolled his eyes. “W-w-what? Nance, you still mad about that? It was just a small fire.”

“Yeah JUST a small fire.” Nancy sighed. “Which turned into a bigger one, okay you ding-dongs. I’ve got other things to do. See you at 9:00 pm.” 

After Nancy left Rick looked at Stan, took out his flask and taking a swig said: “H-H-hey Punchy what do you say we ‘christian’ this room?” 

Stan smiled and shrugged. “Haven’t millions of people done it here already?”

Rick was removing his coat and shirt. “Yep, but they weren’t us, Stan.”

Stan felt a prickle of lust course through him. “Okay, why not.” 

That evening Rick and Nancy smoked their cigarettes and did lines of coke to prepare for the show. Stan got ready too, he wasn’t going to a punk club to see music he hated, he was headed to the disco. He’d asked around, read a magazine and found a good disco. When he stepped out of the bathroom, already in his new white leisure suit, white platform shoes, gold chain shining, and over it his leather jacket with his wallet in one pocket knuckle dusters in the other. He felt like a million bucks. 

Nancy and Rick looked at him, looked at each other and bust out laughing.

“Yeah yeah, yuk it up knuckleheads, I look great.” Stan remarked.

“I’m going to pretend I don’t know you tonight Punchy,” Rick said.

“Oh man, Stan’s a disco doof,” Nancy said with a laugh.

“Hey, I look cool, I’m sorry you two have no taste.” Stan said.

“You meeting anyone?” Rick asked.

“Naw, I’m solo all my old friends don’t ‘like’ or ‘trust’ me anymore.” Stan grunted. “You borrow a few dollars from some people and suddenly they become assholes.”

“Did you pay it back, Stan?” Nancy asked.

“Did they know you were borrowing it or did you just take it, Palooka?” Rick asked.

“Hey leave me alone,” Stan rolled his eyes, though it was true. 

He sat down and did coke, just a little, just enough so he’d be ready for the night. So they went their separate ways. There was a velvet rope and a line with a bouncer in the front. Stan had the cover charge and was considered to look cool enough to go in. He felt good, just high enough to have fun but not too high to be a total asshole. He danced for a while, some of the hottest chicks he’d seen were eyeing him up. He got a harvey wallbanger and surveyed the scene. He was deciding which of the ladies he’d talk to when he suddenly had the urge to piss. He finished his drink, put the minimum down for it and went off to the men’s room. Finding the men’s room empty he shrugged, unzipping he headed to the urinal and began to piss. Stan heard the door open, but ignored it. A stranger had stepped up to use the urinal beside him. Stan felt the man’s eyes on him before he turned to see the man. The stranger was huge, a brute with muscles and a ginger handlebar mustache. He was grinning lecherously, predatorily at Stan. 

“I like what you’ve got there,” The stranger said. “You wanna fuck in over there?”

The man nodded his head at one of the stalls. 

Stan felt a shiver of fear and his hair prickle on the back of his neck. However Stan finished pissing and gulped down his fear. He pushed it deep, deep down. Looked at the mustached stranger square in the face and said: “Naw, not my thing.”

He tucked in his junk and zipped up, started to step away from the urinals towards the sinks.  
The stranger stepped in front of him blocking his path. “Don’t be such a fucking tease, I saw you dancing, you ain’t straight, I’m gonna fuck that ass of yours and you’re gonna like it.”

Stan put one hand in the pocket of his jacket, he put his fingers through the brass knuckles. “I told ya, leave me alone.”

The stranger put one hand on Stan’s shoulder pushing him backwards and another hand over Stan’s crotch. “No, you’re gonna like it. I’m gonna make you like it.”

There was anger and disgust bubbling away inside of Stan now, so strong he could taste the bitter hotness inside of him. With one swift movement he knocked the stranger’s hand off his crotch and brought his other arm back up, ready to punch the asshole in the face. “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

The stranger caught Stan’s fist, his own huge hand, blocking the punch. He grinned. “You got some fight in you, I like that.”

Then he grabbed Stan’s other arm, Stan fought to break free from the stranger’s iron grasp but he couldn’t. There was no other option, he lowered his head and rammed it into the stranger’s own. The stranger was knocked back, temporarily winded. Stan reached in his other jacket pocket and put on the brass knuckles. When the stranger came at him again, he was ready. He gave the fucker the old one two. The fear was replaced with anger and triumph. His blood was up, and dodging as the man lunged at him he growled: “You want a piece of me, asshole!? COME and get it!”

That was when the stranger grabbed him by the hair and dragged him towards the sinks. Stan heard the crack of cartilage as the stranger rammed his face into the edge of the basin twice. But Stan slipped the Stranger’s grip, and though his nose was bleeding he punched and kicked the bastard. He rammed his fists and feet into the other man over and over again! The Stranger laughed, got up and charged him. Stan dodged and then slammed the stranger through the men’s door. The fight burst out onto the disco proper. Stan was over the stranger punching his hateful face as he lay on the ground panting and yelling something. The music had stopped, Stan looked up and saw two bouncers coming at him. He reached down, grabbed the prone man’s wallet and ran. With the adrenaline pumping he got out into the street wiped the blood off his face and took the subway back to the blue diamond.  
Stan was sitting up watching the test pattern when Rick came back whistling. When he saw how Stan looked, sitting there in his still rumpled blood stained leisure suit and sporting a broken nose, the song died on his lips. 

“H-h-hey what what happened to you?” Rick asked.

“Not gonna talk about it.” Stan growled.

“Fine,” Rick grunted. “But I have some s-s-s-stuff for that nose of yours.” 

“Not going to the hospital.” Stan mumbled.

“You don’t have too.” Rick said.  
He reached into his luggage and pulled out a syringe and after more rummaging a vial of blue stuff. He hummed as he filled the syringe. Then walked up to Stan and plunged the syringe into the side of his broken nose. There was an odd sensation of ..of…crinkling or un-crinkling? Re-molding? Stan felt his face, his nose was no longer tender, no longer busted. 

“How’d you do that?” He asked Rick.

“Science,” Rick rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t even begin to understand. It involves geckos.”

“Oh,” Stan. “Yeah, probably wouldn’t care either.”


	8. vacation in NYC: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness, I was being really lazy and sick lately.

Stan woke up to the sounds of the shower running in the bathroom. He felt like hell again, he was sure he had cracked a rib or something, and ached all over. Oh well, better get cleaned up. Getting up, he stretched and walked over to the bathroom and knocked on the door:  
“When you gonna be done?”

The reply came, “Hey, Punchy… why don’t you join me?!”

Stan sighed, “Not now, I don’t feel like it.”

“Then... then I don’t feel like getting out!”

Stan grumbled to himself, Rick was probably using up all the hot water in there. He turned on the tv and watched as he waited for Rick to get out of the shower. He ached, he was sore all over like an old man, also he was pretty groggy. Finally Rick left the bathroom, towel over his waist and another one on his head.

“All free, your turn,” Rick said pulling off the bottom towel and flinging it on the bed, and rubbing his head with the other one. 

Stan took the shower, surprisingly there was hot water. The hot water had done wonders for the various aches and soreness. Afterward he looked over himself in the bathroom mirror, a few bruises and a black eye. He popped some aspirin and put in his contacts. Rick was watching a cop show on the tv, when he stepped out of the bathroom, still in the buff.

“Get dressed we need to have some breakfast.” Stan ordered. 

Rick looked up at him from the bed and shrugged. “Hey, I got this idea… what if… there was this cop show and the one detective he had like … baby legs? Like he’s half baby, all … uncoordinated and stuff.. but then! He gets paired with this other cop who has regular legs! It would be great!”

“What are you on, this morning, Rick?” Stan asked.

“Nothin’ I just think it would ya know be a cool show. I got this other idea, how about a duck who’s like Sherlock Holmes and solves crimes, Stan.” said Rick.

“It would never work,” said Stan.

Rick shrugged. “It might. You never know.”

 

Stan shook his head and they got dressed. 

Stan took Rick to this place on the lower east side, in Stan’s opinion best bagels in the city, his Dad used get bagels from them. The coffee wasn’t so bad, either. Rick surprised him getting a bialy. 

“How does a guy like you even know what those are?” Stan asked.

Rick said, “I’ve been in this city before, when I was teenager I lived at a boarding house during the summers.“

“Oh, alright.” Stan said. Later maybe, if he felt up to it, he’d got to Katz’s for some chopped liver, maybe not. 

“Anyhow Punchy,” Rick said taking a bite of his bialy. “W-w-we are wasting time being sober.”

Stan laughed. “Yeah…”

In his mind he kept going back to the night before and the guy in the disco. Maybe getting wasted would help get rid of this odd, naked and weak feeling he had. Yep, that was probably just the ticket. When they got back to the hotel Nancy was waiting for them outside.

“Hey guys,” She said there was something anxious in her tone. “Stan what happened to you?”

“Nothin’” Stan grumbled.

“Fine be that way,” she said rolling her eyes. “I got it, Rick.”

“G-g-good, thanks for coming through for me Nance, knew I could count on you.” Rick said.

“Yeah, let’s get in your room,” She mumbled.

They went back up to the room. Nancy took out a small glass jar filled with brown powder from her jacket. Rick cleaned off the table and she began to cut those thin, thin lines of it. Nancy took the first one, then Rick, finally Stan did his line. OH, that wonderful, blissful feeling of being warm, happy, and so high. It didn’t seem to last that long though, so soon they were cutting more lines and snorting it again. After a while there was much less of it, they laid sprawled out on the beds. Rick was in between them with one arm looped around Nancy and the other around Stan. He turned to Stan and slowly, ever so slowly kissed him sloppy and wet. Then he turned to Nancy and kissed her, oddly she seemed into it. Then Stan kissed Nancy, she tasted like cigarettes but her lips were so soft. For awhile they tangled together kissing and humping in drugged out bliss. Then Nancy’s top came off, she was so skinny underneath. Her breasts were funny, freckled and a small b-cup, almost a handful but not quite. Soon all of them were undressed. Nancy was taking turns sucking on their cocks, as they were kissing eachother over her head. Then she was in between them, Rick’s cock in her mouth, and for the first time in five months Stan found himself, having sex with a woman. At first it was good, she was hot and so wet. After a while it seemed to go almost numb and she was complaining about being sore. So he pulled out. Still hard, he lay on the bed as Rick gave him a lazy handjob and Nancy was still sucking on Rick’s cock. Rick did something, he took a wet finger and slipped it inside. Normally Stan would object, but at the moment he was too high. And then he felt it wiggle inside of him, the drugs, the hand job, the fingering… it was good… so intense… but he couldn’t come. Not even if he wanted too. At one point someone had turned on the television, it babbled on in the background, none of them were paying attention. Then they weren’t touching, they weren’t doing anything but letting themselves count down, and they slept.

Stan woke up groggy and sick to the blast of an air horn.

“..fuck you.” he mumbled and put the pillow over his head.

The pillow was ripped out of his grip and tossed aside. He looked up at the blurry face of Nancy.

“Rick wants you up,” She said with a shrug. “We need to go out and have some fun.”

“…didn’t we just do that?” he muttered.

“NO PUSSING OUT STAN!” Rick shouted from across the room. 

“nnngh,” Stan muttered but sat up.

His eyes itched, the contacts were still in them. He stretched, yawned hugely and got to his feet. Rick tossed him the flask. 

“H-h-here, this’ll get you started Punchy.” Rick said.

Stan unscrewed the top and took a swig of the rotgut, it burned and tasted like an ashtray. He shook his head and blinked, he was ready. “Okay, let’s paint the town, red!”

 

“That’s it!”Nancy said.

 

He got himself cleaned up, shaved, put on some nice clothes and they went out, hitting the bars with such a determination that it was surprising. The night dissolved getting blurrier and blurrier as it spun out of control, until it’s self memory disappeared into a void. The last thing Stan could remember was pushing a sailor.  
Stan woke up feeling like a pig shit in his head, his head pounding and his stomach seething. The place he was sleeping was cold, hard, and stunk of urine and disinfectant. he could hear the metallic clink of keys.

He had a bad feeling, he was in the drunk tank at some police station. He opened his eyes…yep. Rick was sitting up beside him, looking worse than usual if that was possible… staring blankly at the opposite wall. 

“…how did we?” Stan began 

“…I dunno…” Rick finished. “shut up… shut … your face.. it’s too loud…”

The door swung open. An officer was standing there. “Well Mr. Smith and Dr. Figgis you’re bail has been paid, you’re free to go.” The police officer said the word with more than a hint of sarcasm.

 

“It has?” Stan asked.

“Yep.” the police officer said.

Rick got up nonchalantly and walked out the door. Stan followed him, hungover and bemused. 

In the lobby Nancy was waiting, standing next to her was a stooped elderly man. Leaning on a golden tipped cane, he had a thick mop of white hair and wore a well tailored suit of canary yellow. An eccentric, Stan dismissed the man in his mind. Until he spoke, “Ah, Mr. Smith and Dr. Figgis, glad to meet you, in the flesh.”

“What?” Stan looked puzzled. “Look mister I’ve never seen you before in my —“

...but there was something in this man’s way of speaking that was hauntingly familiar, Stan just couldn’t quite piece together what it was about this guy.

Rick grabbed Stan and put a hand over his mouth. “T---T-THIS, Stan, is Mr. Flavius William King, he’s the guy providing the funding for the research, I’m gonna do. A-a-a-also he was nice enough to bail us out, so stop acting like an asshole.”

Stan blinked and then tried to grin and the man. “Thanks.” He offered his hand to Mr. King. The man looked at it with eyes obscured by bangs for a pause. As if a switch flicked, Mr. King took Stan’s hand and shook it vigorously, bone-crushingly hard, and his nails dug into Stan’s skin.

“Yeah, you’re welcome! I can’t have my star researcher and his ‘best buddy’…” Mr. King gave a salacious wink. “..in jail when I need you guys so much.”

Stan withdrew his smarting hand. He wondered why Mr. King needed him, Rick yeah… but he was nothing to this weird old coot.

There was a chirpy edge to his voice, a cadence that Stan didn’t like…how did Mr. King know they were more than friends?

Maybe the guy was a fruit as well as an eccentric… oh well. Rick was talking to the guy, thanking him in his stuttering awkward way.

After walking out of the police station Rick hailed a cab. Mr. King smiled to them as they got in, saying one last thing to Rick and laughed.

Nancy glared at them as she wedged herself in between them. “That Flavius King guy? Seriously creepy.”

“Yeah,” Rick admitted. “I-I- never met him in person… he just, ya know a voice on the other end of the phone, Nance. But he’s got the money to fund some things I want to do.”

“He told me I’d die six months from now, I’d O.D. What the fuck?!” Nancy said with a shudder. “Also hit on me… I think he said... he’d never been inside a lady with hair like mine… kept staring at me, and grinning.”

“Well he got us out of the shit,” Rick said. “Which is why I gave you his number Nance, last night before we fought those sailors.”

“We did?” Stan was roused from his stupor.

“Yeah you did.” Nancy rolled her eyes. “There were a half dozen of ‘em but after the bikers, you guys felt you could take on the world.”

“We fought bikers?” Stan put his hand on head.

“No, ya had a drinking contest with ’em and they were so impressed they let you two stay in the bar.” Nancy said.

The cab pulled up at the Blue diamond and Rick paid the taxi driver.

Outside the hotel Nancy reached into her jacket and pulled out Stan’s knuckle dusters. “Aren’t you glad you gave these to me before the cops got you?”

“I thought of that?” Stan was amazed at the black out drunk state he’d been in that night.

“Yeah, I was surprised, you can put it away like Rick does and he’s an alky.” Nancy grinned.

“I’m sorry about yesterday…I was high and it was stupid…”

“No,” She shook her head. “I wanted it, besides don’t you think I haven’t fooled around with Rick before?” Nancy said.

Rick returned from paying the tax driver. Nancy reached in her other pocket: “Here’s your thingy, doofus.”

She handed Rick a small silvery gun and Rick smiled. “Great y-y-you’re just amazing Nancy.”

“See you two later,” Nancy said and walked off.  
So they packed and went back to Boston, both nursing hangovers with coffee and aspirin.


	9. Welcome to Arkham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank my new beta reader: lesbeanweenies

~~~~~~~~ Chapter 9: Welcome to Arkham~~~~~

It was seven days since Stan Pines had done smack. He wasn’t a smack head, he wasn’t a junkie. It was just Rick and him were getting ready to move to Arkham, it was stressful, they were at each other’s throats. Weed wasn’t getting him as relaxed coke and booze would just ratchet up the tension. He just needed something to get him high and maybe a few lines of brownstone would do the trick. The problem was Rick knew people who had heroin, Stan didn’t really and Rick was off doing something, maybe apartment hunting? So it was lucky that he ran into Wentworth, if anyone had a hook up it was Wentworth Robinson. 

“Stan-the-man!” Wentworth greeted him eagerly.

“Hey Wentworth!” He said. 

“How’s it going?” Wentworth asked.

“Alright, I guess, look can you do me a favor?”

 

Wentworth gave him a look all quirked eyebrows and thin lips the image of distrust.”...Yeah what?”

“Look, I ummm,” Stan was bad at this part. “uhhh well was wondering if you where I could get some smack? I have the money… it’s not for me…”

Wentworth laughed and shook his head. “Yeah I do. I can get it for you, give me an hour, I’ll come by yours and I’ll see if can help you out.”

“Oh… uuhhh great.” Stan was sweating a bit but smiling. “I’ll have the money.”

 

“I”m sure you will Stan,” Wentworth said with a laugh.

 

So Stan went back to the warehouse and waited, watched some reruns on the old tv. The buzzer buzzed and he almost sprang off the couch. Had he really been that eager? He paced himself and wandered over to the intercom. He pressed the button: “What?”

“H-h-hey Punchy it’s me…”

Stan groaned it was just Rick. “Don’t you have a key?”

“…I forgot it. Also Wentworth is here, says he wants to see you.”

Stan, sighed pressed that buzzer to let them in, he was trying not to show any kind of excitement. Rick staggered past grinning, followed by Wentworth, who gave Stan a secretive smile.

“Y-y-you’re gonna love this place I found,” Rick said with a belch. “Two bedroom place second floor, real nice Stan.”

Rick wandered over to the fridge undid the lock and pulled out a beer. 

“I thought you were getting your key, Rick,” Stan grumbled.

“I was out all day, Stan, I j-j-just need to put my feet up for a moment or two.” Rick said heading over to the couch and doing just that his feet resting on the milk crate in front of the tv.

“I’ll come back some other time, “ Wentworth said with an apology in his voice.

“Naw,” Rick said. “R-r-relax, kick back, enjoy yourself.”

“I got things to do,” Wentworth turned towards the door. “I have some other business in the city.”

Wentworth flashed a glass vial at Stan and began to walk away. A light bulb went off in Stan’s head. “I”ll walk you to door.”

“Nice of you, Stan.” Wentworth said with a grin.

“Yeah, sure,” Stan remarked noncommittally. 

They were at the doorway of the warehouse. “No really,” Wentworth said going in for a hug. “Really kind of you.” He slipped the vial into Stan’s pocket. 

Stan quickly took out the money from his other pocket and slid in Wentworth’s hand. Then released.

“Naw, it’s nothing. After all you showed me how to hustle more suckers.” Stan said with a laugh.

Wentworth glanced down in his palm, seemed to calculate something in his head, then grinned. “You were a good pupil, Stan-The-man. Bye.”

“See ya,” Stan gave a wave.

Then shut the warehouse door and turned feeling very slick and cool. Rick was watching him with one eyebrow raised. “So Punchy what drugs did you buy?”

“Nothin’ I was just… just…” Stan felt himself crumple under Rick’s gaze.”I got some horse.”

“Brownstone?” asked Rick.

“Yep.” Stan said trying not meet Rick’s gaze.

“Well c’mere, share with me,” Rick said. “I’ve got you high enough times you owe me. I’ll show you how to cut it so you don’t kill yourself.”

Stan frowned, then shrugged and ambled over to Rick. He paid attention this time and listened as Rick cut the lines, they were so thin and so small. He wondered if he could hack it.

“Hey weren’t you going out again?” Stan asked as Rick lowered his head.

 

Rick looked up at him his eyes glazed and dreamy. “Naw, I decided -he bleched- to stay here and relax.” 

They both spent the afternoon high as kites, ankles deep in oblivion. And afterward Rick didn’t seem care, but Stan felt a strange craving for more.

Stan didn’t have many things to pack just two measly boxes. Oddly enough Rick didn’t pack a lot either and most of it was just science bullshit. Rick had bought a 71 Pinto, a shitbox car that someone had painted sea foam green. 

When He pointed out to Rick it was a shitbox, in a horrible color Rick stared at him and said: “I know, the thing is I don’t care. I can make into something cool, if I want.”

“So suddenly you know about cars, then?”

Rick shrugged. “Yeah, my asshole father was a mechanic when he had a job.”

“And he taught you?”

“Naw, my uncles did he never had the patience for that,” He punctuated his sentence with a belch. “An engine is an engine, Palooka.”

“What about the color?” asked Stan with a shudder. “It looks like toothpaste.”

“Makes it easy to find,” Rick shrugged.

Stan rolled his eyes, the finished loading the trunk of the Pinto, this was the second trip to Arkham. They were on the highway when an asshole in a blue camaro cut them off. It made Stan boil with anger, but in the next thirty seconds the asshole had run right into a tree on the side of the road. The front go the car a crumpled mess. Stan and Rick began to laugh. Then the best thing happened. The asshole got out to inspect the damage, slammed the door which caused a hornet’s nest in the upper branches to dislodge fall on the hood, the angry hornets swarming out to sting him. The asshole flailed around screaming. Stan and Rick had to pull over on the other side, because they were laughing so much. After they wiped the tears from their eyes they smiled at each other, looked in the rearview and saw the asshole besieged by hornets screaming, it sent them laughing again. They drove off, giggling. The laughter seemed to evaporate when they entered Arkham. 

There was something weird about this town. Stan couldn’t put his finger on it. Lots of houses in town had weird barn-like roofs could be that , it could be the dark Miskatonic river cut through the middle of it or it could be the fact it was near a lunatic asylum that bore nearly the same name as the town: Arkham.

They had a apartment near the university in on the second floor of a unimpressive rectangular house covered with white aluminum siding. The landlord lived on the first floor. He was middle-aged, Eastern European, stout, short with a thick mop of black hair and heavy eyebrows. 

“Do not mind the night noise, is just the house settling, is old house,” said the landlord in an odd aside.

“Uh-huh.” Rick wasn’t paying attention. He was measuring the corners of the room and making notations in a small pad.

“You got our deposit right?” Stan asked.

“Yes, yes, The landlord nodded and added nervously. “Do not go in cellar, is unfinished, is very messy.” 

“Right, yeah,” Stan wondered why this guy was wasting his time telling him this garbage.

“You told Rick the utilities were included.” Stan asked. “That’s true, right?”

The Landlord smiled greasily. “Of course, it’s all in rent. Pay in cash, if I no answer put envelope in mailbox, If you hear any strange sounds coming from my apartment it’s—“

“—Yeah gotcha.” Stan cut him off. “Thanks uhhh… Mr.Sobolannascut.”

Mr. Sobolannascut smiled again, his teeth were pointed and yellow (almost not human, bubbled a thought in the back of Stan’s mind). 

“I go now.” Said the landlord

Stan waited for the closing door and sound of footsteps down the stairs before turning to Rick. “Can you believe that guy talked my fuckin’ ear off, nothing useful either.”

“Mmmm.” Rick was staring at his notepad, chewing his lower lip. “All angles are euclidean, checks out.”

“What does that even mean?” Stan asked.

“Not gonna explain you wouldn’t get it.” Rick said.

“Oh right,” Stan said. “I’ll unpack.”

He went his bedroom with his box of belonging and began to unload and arrange them, it was a small dark room in the back. There was a single bed in the corner, Stan knew he’d hardly ever sleep in it. So why did he have it? Because they weren’t boyfriends, or lovers, or anything… just two guys who fucked. Though sometimes when he looked at Rick, his dark disheveled hair, his homely skinny face, thin lips bent in a smile, Stan felt an odd a warmth. Sometimes when they slept in the same bed, he’d listen to the other man’s heart beat, feel his skin next to his own and suddenly feel safe. Why? It wasn’t love, Stan lied to himself. Well, he had to, because he wouldn’t be Stan Pines if… he let the truth slip in…He had a notion he wouldn’t be Stanley Pines anymore, he couldn’t call himself a real man.

They had finished unpacking for the day, and had settled down in front of the tv with some beer. When the phone rang in the kitchenette, Stan looked at Rick as if to say ‘I ain’t moving.’ Rick sighed and got up he walked across the room to the ringing phone and picked it up.

“Yeah?”

“—“

“Mr. King…”

“—“

“Alright, Flavius! How’d you get this number?

“—“

“Oh yeah, I-I-I knew that!”

“—“

“Tomorrow? Sure I’ll come, it’ll get me out of the house.”

“—“

“Uh-huh… yeah, g-g-got it Flavius.”

“—“

. “Really?!” Rick turned and looked at Stan grinned. then laughed: ”He didn’t even say anything about that!”

“——“

“Just tell me where it is…? Yeah, uh-huh…yeah… sure mmm-hmmmm.”

He had taken out the notepad and was scribbling down something.

“—“

“Yeah I got it, thank you Flavius you really are a g-g-g-great guy.”

He got off the phone, put it down and ambled back to the couch.

“What was that about?” Stan asked.

“ That was Mr. King, the Dean is having a little,” he belched. “Get t-t-together for our department, w-w-wants us to get to know each other etc.”

“Okay you go to that.” Stan said.

“Yeah we can bring someone. You have a suit, you wanna go Stan?”

 

“Not really,” Stan sighed. “Can’t see hangin’ out with a bunch of stuffed shirts being any fun.”

 

“T-t-they’ll be free food Punchy, and maybe an open bar. “ Rick said.

“Why didn’t you say so?! I’ll go then!” Stan said with a chuckle. 

Later in the night, Stan tried to sleep in his own bed. The room was pretty dark and it was unseasonably cold for the season, but that wasn’t what kept Stan up. The strange noises coming from the walls, scratchings scuttling, creaks and groans (probably just some mice) got to him. 

So he left his bed, and crawled into next to Rick. the other man rolled over and muttered something in his sleep. When Stan got in next to him he moved closer. And with Rick’s heartbeat next to his he began to doze. Stan woke up to the tingly, intense and glorious sensation elements of Rick jerking him off.

Stan turned and smiled at him. Rick grinned back.

“Ya ready?”

“A-a-almost.” 

He pulled off the covers back, squirted some lube inside of him and mounted Stan’s erection, slowly sliding down on it was torture and bliss, Rick set the pace, as he bounced and rocked on Stan’s cock, one hand curled around his own penis. It was just as good as the first time, hot, sweaty, intense and blissful. Stan tried to hold back, tried to not come as the sensation mounted but it had been almost two weeks, and he hadn’t exactly been jackin’ it either. Suddenly it was too much, it was overwhelming, and he came, but managed to stay hard for a few more minutes as Rick finally reached orgasm and deposited a load on Stan’s belly.

Rick rolled off and kissed him, Stan grunted and muttered: “Shit, I’m gonna have to shower now.” 

“Real grateful there Punchy,” Rick said sarcastically.

Stan got up and wandered over to the bathroom, turned on the shower and began to get clean, singing to himself softly. It was a blue tub/shower combo so there was a little room when Rick joined him. 

“Showering a friend to keep the water bill down?” Stan said sarcastically.

“Hey y-y-y-you’re the cheapskate,” Said Rick with a smirk. He grabbed the soap and washcloth from Stan and began to lather up.

“Aw geez we are queer aren’t we?” Stan sighed.

“We’re whatever we want to be P-P-Palooka,” Rick said. “If you wanna be queer…”

“…That’s the last thing I want,” Stan said.

“Yeah I noticed, you never seem to return the favor, when I blow you and you never let me fuck you, Stan.” Rick said.

“Well, yeah, I’m not —not a wom—“ He began. Rick was glaring at him.

“—choose your next words carefully, Punchy,” Rick began.

“— Interested in doing those things—“ Stan started

“—You haven’t tried them, so you don’t know.” Rick finished. “You are scared,Stan.”

“WHAT?! I ain’t scared of nothing!” Stan said.

“Except another man’s dick to close you’re fun holes,” Rick said. 

“I ain’t dropping the soap around you, Rick,” Stan said. Then stepped out the shower he found a towel and started to dry off,

Rick was still in the shower singing in that odd way of his. Stan thought it might ‘Talkin’ bout my generation’ but it wasn’t sure with the words replaced by ‘lub-lub-lub- blip - blip-blop’

Stan got dressed: white t-shirt and jeans, put his contacts slicked back his hair. 

The kitchenette of this apartment was cheap and shabby, with fading yellow paint on the walls and similarly faded yellow countertops, the linoleum which could have been white once was yellowing as well, also peeled and dented. 

He poured out the cereal, added whiskey and milk. Started brewing up some coffee in the percolator. When the weird noises in the walls began again, he turned on the radio to the local top 40 station as loud as he could.

When the coffee was done he poured himself a mug and tried to enjoy it. 

The shower went off, Rick came out, and sat down, pouring himself a mug of coffee and adding the whiskey to it. He didn’t bother dressing, he just had put on briefs. The day marched on and on, they unpacked some and tried to ignore the ‘normal’ noises of house.  
Finally it was seven o’clock and time to get ready for the cocktail party. Stan had an old suit, he’d picked up at a thrift store. It was black with wide lapels, single breasted, looked good with a white dress shirt underneath, he debated whether to use a regular blue tie or this cool red string tie that he’d bought at the same thrift store. Eventually choosing the blue tie. He looked at himself in the mirror that was on the door of his room. He looked GOOD, the suit fit perfectly as if it was MADE for him… but the tie… not right… to bland. He found the string tie and put it on, tying the knot stepping back. Yep he looked SHARP now, though it could use a hat. Something… original, not fedora or a trilby something different but he had no hats. 

“Mothers lock up your daughters, Stan Pines is on the town tonight.” He said with smile and then added: “Step right up, ladies and gents, see Massachusetts’ creepiest apartment, admission is only ten bucks.”

In a suit like this people would trust him, they’d like him, he could scam anyone. 

He walked out into the living room. Rick was waiting wearing an olive green turtle neck and a pair of brown corduroy pants. He looked Stan up and down.

“Stan, w-ww-what museum did you steal that suit from?” He asked

“Shut up, I look good.” Stan said.

Rick looked at him again and smiled. “Actually, Stan you do. Weird, a suit like that shouldn’t look good on anyone, Punchy.”

They turned off the lights, walked into stuffy stairwell locked the door, thumped down the stairs and walked out into the dimming twilight of the summer’s night. 

Neither one could agree on radio stations on the way, Rick wanted the college station and Stan wanted the local top 40 station. Since they were paying so much attention to the radio, they got turned around on back streets, went over the bridge twice. Until Stan found the directions in the glove compartment and read them out loud to Rick. The whole thing took place at the Dean’s house, a large cream colored house on a well manicured lawn with one those roofs that looked like an old barn. Strange but classical music floated out from open windows. There was the sound of laughter, and conversation. Rick rang the doorbell, a chubby but attractive older woman with dark hair in a bob and olive skin answered. She wore a brown dress with a pattern of growing roses on it.

“I’m Sonia are you here for the party?” She asked.

“”This is the Dean Pprior-Hill’s house r-r-right?” asked Rick. 

“Yes, I’m his wife.” She said. “And you are?”

“Rick Sanchez and guest,” Rick replied.

“Oh, this is your..?” She began a look of interest on her face.

 

“…Friend, I figured you wouldn’t mind if i tagged along,” Stan said.

She smiled. “No the more the merrier.”

“So you’re last name? Are you a Pprior or a Hill? “ Stan asked as they walked in the front door.

“Neither,” She said with a laugh. “It’s my husband’s surname. It’s a very old new England name. My last name was Greenberg before I was married.”  
The was a trace of an New York accent, when she said it. 

He had instant of understanding when he looked at her. “I’m Stanley Pines.”

She blinked and wrinkled her brow. “What was that again?”

“Stanley Pines.” He repeated.

“Oh,” She smiled there was still a glimmer of bewilderment.

Rick was already in the living room when Stan got there. It was a classy place: off-white walls, with just the right vase there or painting here, some of it looked a bit shabby but more like shabby on purpose, sorta subdued way of telling the world how blue blooded you were without yelling it. Stan suspected the things that were shabby were antiques or heirlooms. This would be good place to heist, if Rick wasn’t working for the guy. 

They entered the living room where this cocktail party was taking place. A table was spread with appetizers, another in the opposite corner with a bar. In the middle was a blue sofa and some matching arm chairs, also a few wooden chairs taken from wherever the dining room was.

Rick had already made himself a Manhattan and was talking with a tanned haughty brunette, in a navy blue blazer, matching skirt white blouse and pearl earrings. There were others on the sofa. A small bespectacled man with a big nose, light brown hair in a tweed suit with, yes, leather patches on the elbows. He was sitting nearby, seemingly drinking in what Rick was saying, but scowling near him was... Well, Stan could call her a giantess. Her hair was gleaming black, in a odd style so her bangs fell over her eyes. She wore a red cocktail dress and a gold necklace. There was old Flavius King, in that yellow suit, chatting with a tall pale man with a long face big chin and there were few others, younger more anxious in little knots or by themselves: graduate students. 

Rick saw him and motioned over: “H-hey Stan, c’mere, I want you to meet a few people!”

Stan wandered over to the sofa. “Yeah?”

“This is Dr. Ushas A. Hinter, she’s going to the head of this whole she-bang. She studied at some university in Ireland. Galli— something."

 

The haughty brunette glanced up at him, slid her eyes over him, like he was some bug and said, “Hello.” She spoke with a cultured British accent.  
Then slid her eyes away.

“This old rascal over here is Dr. Fiddleford Hadron Mcgucket, me and him were roommates at MIT. Both boy geniuses back then.” Rick said jovially. “We were very close for a while.”

Mcgucket blushed, as if Rick had implied… that him and Fiddleford did it? Maybe… Stan didn’t care. Mcgucket was friendlier though he stuck out his hand: “Pleasure to meet you.”  
He had a soft southern accent. Stan shook his hand, it was a weak weedy handshake. But the guy was a nerd so, it didn’t matter.

“That lovely lady in red is Mrs. Mcgucket,” Said Rick.

Mrs. Mcgucket turned her head, smiled and muttered, “Call me Gina,” in a husky voice.

“Right,” Stan said.

“O-o-ver there, talking to Flavius, is Dean A. T. Pprior-Hill. He’s probably gonna make some speech Stan, so watch out. And the rest are our little helpers- grad students.” Rick said. “Not important.”

“Got it,” Stan replied. “If you don’t mind, I’m gonna get something to drink and some food.” 

The Dean had good Scotch, he hadn’t heard of it before -Talisker- but it was really fucking amazing. So he poured himself a generous glass with some ice. The appetizers were old school: canapés, deviled eggs, rumaki, things on sticks, hot clam dip, toasts with things spread on them. He dug in, getting a huge plate of everything, sat down on one of the beige chairs and munched away while he long hairs talked about their science gobbledy gook. The Scotch was giving him a warm, subdued feeling. He soon found himself chatting with the Dean’s wife, she seemed like a normal person, more or less, it was small talk mostly. 

“So,” He said. “What’s with the extra P in Prior?”

She shrugged. “Well, back when husband’s family came over…long ago, normal people were just learning how to read and write. So if you wanted an extra silent ‘p’ in your last name you threw it in.”

"Weird why not change it?” He asked

She rolled her eyes: “Because ‘that’s the way it’s always been spelled.’” 

Then the doorbell rang. “I gotta go! A hostess job is never done” She said and bustled away.

Stan heard the door open and a vaguely familiar woman’s voice say: “Sorry, we got lost.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the Dean’s wife. “Just come in and get yourself a drink!’

A man’s voice muttered on the edge of hearing. Stan turned his attention back to his deviled eggs. When he heard a voice, he knew very well indeed nearby. He got up to see who if was who he thought it was.  
Standing there in a ill fitting suit, horn rimmed glasses gleaming, was his brother twin Stanley. His brother turned saw him, he saw Stanley’s jaw set, and eyes get hard. Stanel Pines felt his stomach drop.  
That’s when Rick got up.

“”H-h-hey! Look who’s here, Punchy, it’s your brother and his wife, how long has it been, you two?”

He put his arm on Stan’s shoulder in a jolly half-drunk way. Stan was at a loss for words. There was a pause in which it seemed the whole room seemed to stop and watch. Then the slight, curly haired woman beside his brother (What was her name again? He should know he was the best man at that wedding!), gave her husband a nudge. 

“Far too long, Stan,” Stanford said, grabbed his brother and drew him into a fierce hug. 

“Hey brother, this is nice, Ford but uhhh we’re in public.” Stan began.

The hug got tighter and heard his brother whisper in his ear: ’What the hell are you doing here, you bastard?”

When he was released he looked over at Rick, who was grinning from ear to ear, the asshole knew! He knew Lee was coming!  
And Stan felt rage well up inside of him, he pushed it down. As much he wanted the deck the guy, he wasn’t drunk enough, yet. Flavius was also grinning, like a weasel.

Then Stanford’s wife moved close to him. “Hey, Stan it’s been so long, we really need to catch up. You know you have nieces and nephews now?”

Stan grinned. “I do? That’s great uhhhh…”

“…Debra, I’m Debra, Stan.” She seemed friendly and open, unlike his brother. “Why don’t you two talk.”

And she walked away. It had been six years, since they'd been face to face. 

“So, how you doing?” Stan asked his brother awkwardly.

“Alright,” replied Stanford. “I finally paid off the last of those bill you ran up in Europe.”

“Heh heh,” Stan chuckled nervously. “Look, I didn’t think—“

“—No you didn’t, you never do Stan,” Stanford sighed. “I understand why did it, but…”

“Yeah, forgive and forget, why don’tcha?” Stan sighed. 

Stanford looked him over. “Nice suit, did you steal off a corpse?”

“No,” He said. “I got it from a thrift store and it looks better then yours.”

Stanford’s smile widened. “Yeah, it does. So tell me why are you here?”

“Long story Ford… long story…” Stan began to talk. 

He told half the the truth, that Rick was his friend and roommate, that they'd met during a bar fight in Boston, he left out all the queer stuff.

Stanford’s smile widened. “So tell me why are you here?”

“My roommate told there would be free food,” Stan half joking. “I think he knew you were comingFord.”

“And he didn’t tell you?” Stanford asked.

“Naw, Rick thought it would be hilarious.” Stan added sarcastically, looking over at Rick who was talking once more to Dr. Hinter. 

“Wait That Rick Sanchez, the California Wunderkin is your roommate?!” Stanford exclaimed. “He’s famous!”

Stan shrugged. “I never heard of him.”

Stanford shook his head. “You wouldn’t have-- but---- his papers, his theories, the things he’s invented and the rumors of some the things he’s invented! Also he’s a polymath absolutely revolutionizes any field he’s in.”

“He looks fine to me,” Stan said in puzzled voice, glancing at Rick. . 

“No, no… a polymath is someone who’s good at many different disciplines,” Said Stanford.

“Oh, yeah… he’s good at that.” Stan shrugged. “So how have you been keeping?” 

It surprised him but he actually wanted to know.

“Oh pretty good,” Stanford replied. “I was been teaching at Princeton while I got my PhD. Also I’m a dad.”

“You are? Way to bury the lead, Ford!” Stan grinned and slapped his brother on the back. “What are their names? What are they like!?”

“Well there’s the twins Sarah and Marni.”

“Twins again!” 

“Yeah, I know Stan,” StanFord smiled and looked his brother knowingly. "They are five, Sarah is tomboy and Marni is a little princess, they are both so different, the best of friends. Then there’s Jason he’s two and his hobbies seem to include rolling in dirt and pretending he’s a t-rex.”

He pulled out pictured from his wallet showing a passel of brown haired kids. Despite Stanford pointing out who was who Stanley was having trouble keeping track. The talked some more, about mom, and misadventures they had as kids. It was going good, after all this time him and Lee seemed to be getting along again, like it should be.

“Hey, why don’t I get us some drinks?” Stan asked. “You probably need one, with three kids.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stanford said with a smile.

Stan went over to the bar and practically tripped over Mcgucket, who seemed to be having a staring contest with a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle.

 

As Stan poured scotches for Stanford and himself. He looked over at Mcgucket. “Hey you gonna stand there all night or what?”

“I’m sorry,” Mcgucket said. “I get really nervous at parties, usually a drink helps me relax.”

“So then pour one, and loosen up.” said Stan

“My wife says I shouldn’t, she says I’ll embarrass myself...” Mcgucket replied sheepishly. 

“She’s your wife not your mother. I’d get myself a drink if I was you.” Stan said. “You look like you need one.”

Mcgucket looked up at him and grinned. “Yeah, why not.” He reached for the bottle and poured himself out a measure of bourbon.

Stan poured himself and Stanford the Scotch, wondered if he could steal the Tailsker without the Dean noticing, naw probably not. He handed Stanford the drink and took a sip of his own. 

Stanford took a sip of the Scotch. “Wow, that’s smooth. Nothing like the stuff we used to sneak from Dad’s bottle.”

“Heh heh, yeah, Ford. That stuff was terrible.” Stan said. “And you stole his cigarettes.”

“You stole his cigars though.” Said Stanford.

“I still like a stogie now and then…” Stan said. 

“You think smoking will kill us like it did Dad?” Stanford asked.

“No,” Stan said with conviction. “I know I can quit any time I want.”

Stanford shook his head. “Yeah, so can I.”

Stan remembered being seventeen sitting in a hospital room and watching Pop, who always seemed so strong, so tough, so big grow weaker and smaller. They took turns him, Ma, and Ford, watching Pop as he faded away.  
Most of the time he was drugged to the gills and couldn’t tell asshole from breakfast. But he could get lucid. In one of those moments when they were alone Pop pulled him over and said in that gruff voice of his: “I don’t want to die like this, kiddo, it’s hell. Please, I don’t wanna linger. Put a pillow over my face and end it. It’ll be a mercy.” But Stan didn’t, he couldn’t he just left the room to sob in an empty hospital supply closet. Pop didn’t live to long after that. Stan took another sip of the Tailsker. 

Stan was pulled out of those thoughts by the sound of Mcgucket talking loudly about possum hunting with large wide gestures to Rick, The Dean’s wife, Flavius King and some graduate students

“—Now when you git the possum, you don’t want to kill it right then,” He said. "NOPE! Ya put the critter in a cage, and feed it on milk for three days, then it’s good eatin-’” Mcgucket was saying the southern twang in his voice had grown thicker. 

Stan sidled up to Rick. “Geez, Rick how many did this guy have?”

Rick smiled wickedly. “One. Fidds has always been a lightweight. If you think that’s bad Punchy, look at his wife.”

Gina Mcgucket jaw was set and her fist was clenched, a picture of barely controlled anger. 

“Oy, he’s in the doghouse tonight.” Stan whispered to Rick. 

Mrs. Pprior-Hill got up with look of long suffering on her face. She went over to her husband and whispered something. 

The Dean gave a nervous smile and coughed: “Well since we're all here, Sonia thinks it’s time I said a few words.”

Mcgucket began tapping his glass with a spoon: “SPEECH! SPEECH! SPEECH!” he yelled then started to giggle.

Gina Mcgucket grabbed her husband’s hand and said, “Calm down, dear. it’s just a speech.”

“Oh right,” Mcgucket blushed and sat down next to his wife.

“Well then, it’s just a few words I prepared.” The Dean said and took out folded piece of paper from his blazer pocket. “Here at Miskatonic university we have one the largest collections of esoteric and occult manuscripts outside the Vatican. We are proud of that, but how exactly to interpret the secrets and knowledge from these texts? The old ways seem like hokum and border on blasphemy.  
But thanks to Mr. Flavius King and his generosity we can now employ a 20th century approach to these texts. A new way to use the knowledge of the ancients to serve modern man. Technology, science and the occult have never seemed like a congenial mix, but with the genius of our leading researchers and the resources provided by Mr. King, I am sure, the new Miskatonic department of applied technomancy will be a resounding success! I want you to join me in a toast: To Miskatonic and the new department!”

Everyone raised their glasses there was a chorus of: ‘Here! Here!’ A whoop from the still drunk Mcgucket and Rick whistled. The evening wore on, Stan snacked on more appetizers talked with his brother and his sister-in-law. Rick talked shop with the egg-heads. Mcgucket attempted to show off his spoon playing talents but was thwarted by Gina.  
At the end of the evening Stan slipped off to find the john, after consulting with Mrs. Pprior-Hill he found it. Mcgucket was now ‘cooling off’ in a guest room with his wife. He had no idea where Rick was. Stanford and Debra were yawning, mentioning that they should be getting home. After Stan had done his thing in the bathroom. He left, as he was closing the door. He heard a jaunty voice behind him say: “Took ya long enough.”

He jumped. “ Mr. King, I didn’t hear you there.”

“I’m sneaky like that, I gotta piss, old bodies need to do that a lot more than young ones. And it’s bad manners if I wet myself.”

 

Stan smiled awkwardly at the weird old man. “ Right, uhhh… yeah.”

“Hey before you go, have this,” Flavius King reached into the pocket of his yellow jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I hear you and Rick are the party boys. I understand. I may be old but I get around. That’s the name and number of my dealer: Boaz Marsh. He’s good, he’s got it all.”

“Uhhh…” Stan stared at it. 

“C’mon, you don’t know anyone in this town. Listen to me, Stan Pines you need this.” 

“Right,” Stan said and took the paper. “Thanks?”

“Don’t worry, I feel like doing you a favor,” Flavius said. “Now if you excuse me, I have to urinate or ruin my suit.”

Stan looked at the scrap of paper, and reflexively tucked into his pants pocket. It might come in handy, or it might not, who knew. He should find Rick and get out of here soon. Now where was he.

The Dean’s wife was sitting on an armchair chair smoking a cigarette. She looked exhausted, She smiled up at Stan when he approached. “Oy, I’m not as young as I used to be.” She said. “You’re looking for your friend aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Stan said.

She pointed her cigarette towards the kitchen door. “I saw him through there with Dr. Hinter.”

Stan went into the kitchen and found no one. However there was a glass door in the back. Stan stared through the door into a screen porch. The lights were off, but in the dimness he could make out two figures sitting face to face, leaning in very close. There was the orange glow of a lit cigarette. 

 

“-if you know what I am, then you should be careful, Rick -“ Dr. Hinter was saying in a hushed tone.

“-I’m not scared, you're the most fascinating woman I’ve met in a long time. “ Rick said.

“—Really?” Dr. Hinter replied with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“—Do I have any reason to be scared?” Rick said.

“No,” She began . “I’m kept on a very short leash at the moment. Besides you are equally fascinating, I’ve never met a...man so intelli-“

 

Stan couldn’t watch this they were flirting! He knew it! He shouted from the door: “HEY YOU TWO, THE PARTY IS BREAKIN’ UP. YOU GOTTA GET GOING RICK!”

Rick stood up, “Way to ruin the mood, Palooka.”

Dr. Hinter also stood and muttered something about boorish oafs.

Stan didn’t care, so this chick thought she was better than him, because she was some kind of brainiac? Well so fuckin’ what. It wasn’t like Rick was going to leave him for her, they weren’t lovers beside, just… just… what were they? 

Rick stumbled through the porch door. 

“You good to drive?” He asked Rick.

“Yeah, I-I-I’m fine, Stan.” Rick said took a pull on his flask.

Dr. Ushas A. Hinter gave a sniff and turned her head and walked away, saying nothing to either of them. 

“What a bitch,” Stan remarked.

Rick shrugged. “She’s not so bad, you just have to be on her level.”

“And what’s that?” Stan asked. “Way above normal people?”

Rick sighed frustratedly. “Yep.”

Stanford and Debra were on the way out when they came back into the living room. Apparently the Mcguckets had just left. Stanford smiled at his brother. “It was good to see you again, now that we live so close we should… see each other.”

Debra chimed in: “Meet the kids, they’d love you!”

“Yeah, sure.” Stan smiled.

Dr. Hinter was talking to Flavius King and the Dean, Apparently the old weirdo was her ride. While Flavius was talking to the Dean, Stan saw Dr. Hinter look at Flavius King. There was expression of utter and pure loathing on her face. Why was she here if felt that way? Flavius caught him staring and flashed a cheeky grin. So apparently he knew but didn’t care… odd.

Stan said good bye the rest of the guests: The graduate students, the Dean and his wife, creepy Flavius King and Dr. Hinter who ignored it. Rick was back at the bar, then came over slurred some farewells and they went out to the pinto.

Rick pulled out his flask as he drove and took a swig. He handed to Stan: “H-h-here, you gotta try this, Punchy.”

Stan took a gulp and laughed. “Hey that’s the Tailsker! What happened to the shit in your flask?”

“It’s -- ya know-- it’s at the Dean’s house in the Tailsker bottle.” Rick said. 

Stan laughed again. “You are one in a million Rick.”

“Y-yeah, I am.” Rick said with a belch.

Stan took another gulp, after the party he felt odd, this whole town gave him the willies. But Rick was here, so he guessed he was stuck here for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun putting in anagrams,Lovecraft references and one joke in Romanian this chapter. Also very obvious some Classic who refernece! It's okay if you don't get them, but just know I had tons of fun.
> 
> Also Gine Mcgucket was created by Hereissomething


	10. The natives

Stan vowed to himself he wasn’t going to call the number. This wasn’t how it was done. He didn’t need to get high. He could visit Lee and his family, for instance. If he knew where they lived, maybe Rick would tell him. Rick was now spending a hellvua lot of time at Miskatonic. One night, over some fried fish and chips from a local place, Rick explained. 

“I have to help set up the lab,” Rick said. “Make sure the morons get everything right.”

“And spend time trying to get into Dr. Hinter’s pants?” Stan asked.

Rick grinned. “She’s a beautiful woman. Besides, you and me, we aren’t tied… uhhh ya know, joined at the hip, right?”

“Naw, see if you can crack that ice princess.” Stan lied.

Rick glared at him. “C’mon Stan. You know this isn’t a serious thing, remember rule four.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well I don’t care anyhow. It just gets boring without you here,” Stan said.

“I’m not here to entertain you, Punchy. Get a job, or a hobby,” Rick countered.

Stan shrugged. “I’m working on it.”

He wasn’t, really. He hadn’t bothered glancing at the wanted ads, but watching soap operas and getting drunk in the middle of the day could only be fun for so long. There had to be something better. He wanted to get high again, really sky high. So the next day, he took out the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and called the number.

“What?!” said a gruff male voice on the other end. 

“Hey, is this Boaz Marsh? I uhhh, wanted to talk some business with you.”

“Maybe,” replied the voice. “Who is this? How’d you get this number? It’s unlisted.”

“Flavius King gave it to me. Said you were the man to go to if I wanted to have some fun,” said Stan.

“Flavius King.” There was a pause, and the tone changed from gruff to something almost welcoming. “He did? Flavius is a ….good… friend. If he thinks you’re cool, then fine. What do you want?”

“Brownstone. You got any?” Stan asked.

“Yeah, I do. What will you pay for it?” Boaz said. 

“Whatever you want,” Stan said. “Can I come by tonight?”

“Sure, let me give you my address….”

So Stan grabbed some paper and scribbled it down, and so in the twilight, Stan drove the sea foam green Pinto northwest out of Arkham. On the way there, he passed a titty bar called: ‘THE FLIRTY MERMAID.” It was a squat, square building with a blue neon sign of a mermaid that winked, waved, and swished her tail back and forth. He was practically in the next town, Innsmouth. He wouldn’t have seen the driveway if wasn’t for the mailbox, next to a long dirt road drive that lead into a dark unkempt wood, but Stan could make out the yellow lights of a house though the wood as he drove down it. The house at the end of the drive was a large, decaying Victorian that strongly resembled the type of place ghosts would haunt in a horror flick. The paint was peeling, the roof sagged in places, and some of the gutters had fallen off. There were faint yellow lights in some of the windows, so someone was home. A few cars and boats in various stages of disrepair littered the overgrown lawn. Stan heard creaking as he set foot on the greying boards of the house’s front porch. It was crap. He rang the bell and heard something wailing deep inside the house. He would have run if the door wasn’t opened almost immediately. The man who answered the door was younger then Stan, but already had a pot belly. He was short and sallow with bugged eyes, thick lips, a patchy beard, and long greasy black hair. He was dressed in a gray tank top and a pair of stained jeans. He looked Stan up and down.

“I’m Boaz. You must be Stan,” he said. “Come in.”

The wailing inside continued, it was joined by some banging. “Uhhh… what’s that noise.”

“That’s just my Ma, she’s been sick a long time,” Boaz said. “She kicks up a fuss when people come over. Don’t stand there, man, come in.”

Stan took a step inside the house. The place was a wreck. Clutter, trash, and mess covered every surface, and winding paths were cut through it so the residents of this place could get through. It smelled like dust and mildew, with a faint tang of rot. Boaz had taken a broom handle and was hitting the ceiling with it, shouting: “SHUT UP MA, I GOT BUSINESS TO DO!”

The wailing and banging ceased. 

Well, it was his home. Maybe keeping her upstairs was better than sending her to the local loony bin. Besides, Stan was here to buy drugs, so why should he care?

“She’s not gonna bother us, is she?” Stan asked.

“Naw,” Boaz said with a dismissive gesture. “She’s bedridden.” 

“So you got it?” Stan asked.

Boaz gave him a calculating look and then wandered into the room beyond. “Horse, right? Yeah, I got it. My cousins are fishermen. They meet the supplier out in international waters. I was one too, then injured my back, and Ma got sick. Social Security can only pay for so much, ya know man?”

Stan followed, and found himself in a musty, cluttered living room. There was a sofa covered with some brown hard-worn upholstery amongst the cardboard boxes, stacks of books, magazines, old newspapers, old half-eaten plates of food, and what looked to Stan to be a .35 revolver. There was also a coffee table with the debris of tv dinners, wrappers from food, a green glass bong, a scale like Stan had seen in science class back in high school, and a pile of ground weed. Boaz had left this room, and gone further back into the shambles of this house. He was talking, but between him and the tv, Stan didn’t really hear either one of them. Boaz came back with a small wooden cigar box. 

“Now this is quality shit. I’d have to say much better then the shit you’ll be getting in Boston,” he said. 

Stan groaned: “Is it gonna cost me more?”

“Hey, you are getting something purer. More bang for your buck, man,” Boaz said with a greasy smile. He named the price.

It was a tiny bit more then what Stan had given Wentworth for the same stuff. This was the boonies, after all. He sighed, dug out his wallet, and paid. So Boaz measured it out and put it in a small glass jar, screwed the lid on, and with his horrible smile, said: “Enjoy.”

“Thanks, bye,” Stan said, and with that, he got the hell out of that creepy house. Of course he’d be back. Stan suspected Boaz was the only dealer in the area. Well, the only one he knew.

He was driving along when he decided that since Rick was out having his fun with that Dr. Hinter, there was no reason why he shouldn’t either. He pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Flirty Mermaid. Besides, Rick would want him to check out this place, see what the girls looked like. The lighting inside the Flirty Mermaid was dim, the atmosphere clouded with smoke. The whole sea theme continued inside, with light blue walls and a blue-green ceiling. They were playing “Octopus’s Garden.” There were three skinny brunettes go-go dancing stiffly on cages in raised platforms. They were all wearing blue-green tasseled pasties and sparkly g-strings. Not that they were much to look at. All too thin, with no tits or ass, and weird bulgy eyes like Boaz. So Stan ignored them. On the center stage was a voluptuous blonde. Okay, maybe a bit on the plump side… but Stan didn’t mind… now she was doing a striptease in a chair and shaking her large and perfect bazoongas as a finale. Stan took a seat near the stage. He sat down with a smile, but it didn’t last long. There was a prickling on the back of his neck. He was being watched. He looked around the smokey club, and saw all eyes were on him, from the sullen pop-eyed bartender to the trio of balding thick lipped fishermen in the corner and trio of go-go dancers. Welp, there was two things to do in this situation: turn and run, or own it like a man. 

He went over to the bar and said with a jovial shout: “Everyone gets a drink on me!” 

Knowing strip club prices, it was going to cost him dear, but as the cheer went up from the other customers and the dancers did an extra shimmy, he knew that he’d owned it. Everyone came up and bought their drinks, and Stan got his back slapped and his hand shook. Well, he’d made some friends in low places, and if what Boaz said was true, those fishermen were the ones to have as your buddy. 

“Good one m’boy,” croaked a fat, pop-eyed, bald, rough-skinned man at the end of the bar. The man was wearing a bright check suit. He grinned at him. “I’m Ezer Sargent. You a newcomer.” The last part wasn’t a question, but a statement.

“Yeah, I’m Stan Pines.” Stan slid over and put out his hand to Sargent. “Nice to meet you.”

The other man took his offered hand in a calloused, clammy hand and gave it a hard shake. “Most of the time we don’t like newcomers hereabouts, but I like the cut of your jib, Stan Pines. We need some fresh blood.”

Mr. Sargent gave a smile that contained way too many sharp teeth, but Stan decided that maybe the guy hadn’t visited his dentist in a while. “So what do you do for a living?”

"Everyone I can, sometimes twice, m’boy,” Mr. Sargent said with a chuckle that ended in a gurgle. Then he fished in the front pocket of his suit and pulled out a business card. “I own the used car dealership in these parts. We sell lemons, shitboxes, and jalopies.” 

Stan laughed at that and took the business card. “Well at least you’re honest.”

Mr. Sargent grinned again. “Here I am, out there I sell the finest gently owned automobiles in Essex county.” He pointed with a thick finger out the door of the club.

“Nice.” Stan grinned. 

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Mr. Sargent said, taking out a fat cigar from his suit jacket pocket, “You don’t have a drink. Let me get you one, Stan.”

“Sure,” Stan said. He wasn’t one to turn down a free drink, ever.

“Zeb, give him some of the Medford,” Mr. Sargent croaked at the bartender.

“-Mr. Sargent, you sure? An outsider?” Zeb the bartender asked.

“-The fuck I am! Give him a shot of the Medford,” Mr. Sargent said definitely. 

“Sure thing, Mr. Sargent,” Zeb sighed. He reached under the bar and pulled out a dusty old bottle with a worn label. It contained an amber colored liquid.

“What is it?” Stan asked.

“Medford rum, m’boy. The best damn thing produced in this state. Only prohibition could shut it down,” said Mr. Sargent as Zeb poured out a shot.

Stan ran a quick calculation in his head. “Wait…. that was in 1920. Is it safe to drink?”

Mr. Sargent chuckled. “This stuff isn’t from 1920. No earlier than that. This is good. From a ship that wrecked on a reef outside of my hometown, Innsmouth. I got a whole case. It’s part of my inheritance.”

“So.” Stan inspected the shot. “Is it safe?”

“Of course! Alcohol kills all the bacteria, Stan!” 

“Right!” Stan took the shot, saluted Mr. Sergeant with the shot glass, and knocked it back. This rum had character. It was strong, full-bodied, and put a warmth in Stan’s belly. “Hey that’s not bad,” he said after a swallow.

Mr. Sargent laughed and took a drag from his cigar. “Zeb! Pour us more!”

Zeb sighed wearily, but did so. They both did the shots.

“So Stan, what are you?” Mr. Sargent asked. “And where’re you from?”

The man was drunk, but then again, Stan felt a creeping warm dizziness from the shots. So was he. 

“I’m from New Jersey, and I’m Jewish. Not practicing really,” Stan said.

“I like you Jews.” Mr. Sargent said as he gestured to Zeb to leave the bottle on the counter. “Like my people, you’ve been persecuted unfairly. Also, both our peoples were locked up in camps.” 

“Camps?” Stan asked. Stan had uneasy memories of a cousin’s mom who had a blue tattoo on her wrist, and the black and white images of starved men and women in blue striped uniforms behind barbed wire. 

“Yeah, they don’t teach about it in schools, but it was here in the USA, our government. They took my people, tried to crush us, killed our parents, put us kids in boarding schools. Tried to beat our culture out of us. Told us not to come back here,” Mr. Sargent said, and took another shot.

Stan did the same. It would be impolite to ask what exactly Mr. Sargent was… but Stan had no clue… maybe the old man was lying, or delusional. But they were both getting drunk, as Mr. Sargent poured shot after shot and went on. “-They dynamited the reef, drained the swamps and thought they could turn us normal. Thought they could kill it. But we survived, we came back… they can’t stop us. And Stan, your people and mine, we survive, we are un-killable. Un… squashable.”

“Uh-huh,” Stan said. This rum was strong. He was getting drunker. Things looked odd, the people here odder. He half-listened and watched the floor show, sipping at his shot. A brunette was shaking her plump ass to some disco tune. The blonde from earlier came over. She wore a pink negligee over her costume. 

She went right up to Mr. Sargent, put her arm around him, and kissed him. 

“Big papa!” she cooed.

“Sheba, my dear,” Mr. Sargent said, put his arm over her, and gave her ass a squeeze. “This is Stan, he’s a good guy... not… one of us… but we need fresh blood…”

Stan looked at the stripper more closely. She too had full lips and slight bulgy eyes, despite being as blonde and blue-eyed as an Aryan poster girl. 

“Charmed,” she said, putting her hand out to Stan… There was slight webbing between the fingers. “I’m Bathsheba. I’m Ezer’s girlfriend, just so you don’t think I do this for all the customers.”

He took Sheba’s hand and gave it a shake. Stan had noticed the wedding band on one of Mr. Sargent’s fingers. The man winked at him.

“Wives and sweethearts, m’boy, may they never meet.”

Stan smiled. Man, he was drunk on this stuff. He wouldn’t have to get high tonight… maybe…

The two were making gross kissy faces and Stan was busy watching the floor show, so there wasn’t much talk. 

Then Mr. Sargent looked at him and said: “What do you do for a living, Stan?”

“Me? Nothin’ at the moment.”

“You wanna sell cars?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Come by the dealership tomorrow… We could use men like you.”

Soon Stan was leaving, stumbling out into the summer night and driving back to Arkham. It was lucky, given how hammered he was, that no one was on the road. He got home in one piece, though, and was trying to jam the key into the lock, cursing, when the door opened and Rick was standing in front of him.

 

“W-w-where’d you get this shit-faced, Stan?” Rick asked.

“Flirty Mermaid. It’s a, ya know, strip joint, and I think I gotta job,” Stan said, swaying slightly.

He staggered into the room. “Real nice Punchy, j-j-just don’t puke on the couch,” Rick commented.

“I’m not gonna…” Stan began, and then his stomach gave a lurch. “I gotta get to the john.”

He ran to the bathroom, and was just in time to open the toilet seat and puke into it. 

He finished, looking up to find Rick watching him, sipping from his flask. 

“C’mon Stan, l-l-let’s get you to bed,” Rick sighed, and offered his arm. 

He got to his feet and took Rick’s arm. Rick led him to the bed, not his pathetic single bed, but the other one, the big one, took off his leather jacket, and he collapsed on it. “You’re a real pal, Rick… I owe you one…” With that, he passed out snoring.

Stan woke up feeling like someone had smashed a bunch of nails into his skull. He sat up and nausea surged inside of him. Once more he ran to the bathroom, but only made it to the sink. He looked in a mirror and saw Rick had written ‘DAEHKCAMS’ (whatever that meant) on Stan’s forehead, and added a little doodle of himself jizzing with a comically huge penis. Stan groaned, turned on the faucet, and splashed some water on the doodle to get rid of it. It also woke him up. He opened the medicine cabinet and found the aspirin. He looked down at his hands. Rick had written: ‘I put your drugs in the dresser’ Under it, on the wrist: ‘P.S. look what I did to your other hand’ on the right... and the left, he’d drawn a crude hand turkey with ‘look a turkey!’ in the middle. Stan smiled, then poured five aspirin in his right hand, chewed, and swallowed them down. Set to work to wash his hands. He had to get nice and get his ass out to the address on Mr. Sargent’s business card. The aspirins were helping the hangover; so was the glass of water he forced himself to swallow, as he got himself into some clean clothes and checked out the business card. It was on the same road out of town as Marsh’s house, and the Flirty Mermaid, the road into Innsmouth. Rick was already gone, walking off to Miskatonic, so Stan drove the Pinto out to the sprawling used car lot on the edge of town. It was called Sargent’s. There were deals written in paint on windshields, sparkly bunting, and more shitty old cars then Stan would have believed possible. The dealership itself was a squat building with chrome trim attached to a garage. Stan walked right through the front door, ignored the two salesmen who looked anxiously at him (there were two others talking to customers), and walked to where the offices were. On the wooden door was a gold name plate with the name Ezer Sargent, but between him and the door was a desk with a bored, pale girl with long straight black hair, in a red women’s business suit with a high lacy collar: the secretary. She gave Stan the once-over and shook her head with such contempt, Stan wondered if this was a good idea. That maybe drinking with the old asshole wouldn’t really get him a job, and promises made in the cups would evaporate in the sober light of day. But Stan had to at least try. So he put on a charming smile, marched up to the desk, and said, “I’m here to see Ezer Sargent.” 

The girl at the desk looked at him with weary eyes. “What’s your name? Do you have an appointment?”

“Uhh, he said I should come down today? I’m Stan Pines.”

She sighed and clicked her tongue, then got up and walked into the office behind her. Stan was sweating bullets. He still wasn’t feeling right, and this was taking a long time. Maybe this was bad, and a bad idea. Maybe he should go home now, instead of hearing her come out with some bullshit about her boss.

The door opened, and Ezer Sargent himself walked out. In the light of day he looked worse. His skin was rough and his neck wrinkled. His pop eyes gleamed with cunning, and the light reflected off the bald dome of his head. But he wore a damn fine plaid suit, and smiled when he saw Stan.

The secretary came out behind him, looking tired and sullen. 

“STAN!” he said, in a voice so gravelly you felt a rock slip in your shoe when you heard it. He clapped Stan on the back and gave him a hearty handshake. He turned to his secretary. “This, m’dear, is Stan Pines. He’s our newest car salesman. I’ve got a good feeling about him.”

“…Errr, thanks!” Stan said. “So I got the job?”

“Yep,” said Mr. Sargent. “On a trial basis. Turn up in a suit tomorrow and sell a car, you got the job. Most of it is commission, just so you know. Also I’d like you meet my daughter Malahath. We call her Mala for short.”

“Hello,” Stan said, putting out his hand. 

The girl, who seemed to be about nineteen or maybe twenty, gave a slight smile of her full lips. She rolled her eyes as if to say ‘my father is so embarrassing’, but took Stan’s hand and shook it with a mumbled greeting.

“Remember Stan, show up at eight am, sell a car, and you got a job,” Mr. Sargent croaked. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I see some new customers, and I want to give them the personal touch.”

Stan looked over his shoulder and spotted a nervous-looking college kid, probably from Miskatonic, hands in his pockets, surveying the inside of the dealership anxiously. Stan watched as Mr. Sargent strode up to the young man and began talking. He watched as the guy’s nervousness faded and a smile appeared. Soon the customer was laughing at some joke Mr. Sargent was telling. 

“Your Dad sure is good at this,” said Stan. “It’s amazing, watching him work.”

“He’s one of the few of our people that are charming,” Malahath said. “He’s got a silver tongue. He could sell ice to the Eskimos.”

“Our people? Are you guys Gypsies or Indians or…?” Stan began.

She laughed. “Yeah, something like that. I’m a half-breed anyhow, my mom was German-American.”

“Was?” Stan asked.

“She’s very sick.” Malahath shifted uncomfortably. 

Mr. Sargent was now showing the kid ’70 red Gremlin (one of the worst cars ever made) and the kid actually seemed interested, peeking in the windows, taking a seat in the front seat, and nodding as Mr. Sargent talked. The kid got up and gave one final nod; Mr. Sargent gave him a clap on the back. They walked by Stan and Malahath. As the kid disappeared into the office, Mr. Sargent hung back, winked, and mouthed ‘sucker’ at them. Stan smiled and Malahath sighed.

“Same old Dad,” she said. “Nothing ever slows him down.”

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Stan said. 

She gave a shrug. “Sure thing.”

Stan left feeling good, but the feeling soon faded to a dull boredom. He got home and the apartment was empty, except for the scrambling noises coming from the walls. Rick was off doing egghead shit. Stan looked through the dresser drawers and found the heroin. He got a razor blade from the bathroom and cut three pin-thin lines of it on the coffee table. He snorted one, and it was amazing. It wore off. The second was beyond bliss. It wore off. But he chased quickly with the third line and gave a small moan of pleasure. Then he turned on the television, watching but not watching. He felt so relaxed and sleepy, he nodded off. His daze was interrupted hours later by the sound of the door closing and Rick’s footfalls as he stomped into the apartment.

Stan sat up and stared at Rick. He felt a wave of warmth and contentment looking at the skinny freak… probably due to the brownstone. 

“Hey,” he said with a smile.

“What a day, Punchy!” Rick sighed. “First the library wouldn’t give us the books, then once we got them, the program that Fids said would translate them wouldn’t run right. Ugh! Hopefully it’ll be fixed by tomorrow.” 

Rick wandered over to the fridge and got a bottle of beer. He came back to the sofa and sat down with a thud. 

“Hmmm-mmm,” Stan nodded. 

“You are high and you don’t understand a fucking thing I said, right?” Rick grumbled.

“Yep.” Stan smiled and laughed. “You need to relax, you want some smack?”

Rick stared what remained of the eight ball for a second. “Naw, I think I’ll stick to beer tonight. Can’t be all strung out tomorrow.” 

Stan chuckled. “So no coke?”

“I didn’t say that, Stan… C-c-coke helps me think, smack just slows me down, ya know?” Rick replied. “How’d the interview go?”

“There was none. I gotta turn up tomorrow in a suit,” Stan said. “Sell a car, then it’s mine. Easy as stealin’ candy from a baby.”

Rick sipped his beer, belched, and watched the tv. And in that moment, he seemed so fucking sexy, with his tousled brown hair, aquiline nose, and large eyes. Stan felt the urge to do something that he’d been hiding for quite some time. He placed a hand on Rick’s left thigh.

“Hey there Rick,” Stan said.

“Yeah?” Rick looked down at the hand on his thigh. 

“I wanna suck your cock.”

“Go for it, Palooka.”

Stan’s hand had moved up Rick’s thigh to the junction of his legs and was now stroking the growing bulge there. “The thing is….”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never done this before and I wanna get it right.” 

“Don’t worry I’ll give you.. err pointers. First, no teeth.”

“Heh, heh, I knew that.”

Stan unzipped Rick’s pants. He freed Rick’s erection from his briefs and lowered his head. 

“Start by licking it,” Rick said. “Little licks, not like you are eating pussy, no big sloppy strokes at…” And Rick gasped, which meant he was enjoying it.

Stan was doing exactly as Rick said. Stan thought that Rick’s cock didn’t taste…bad, but like skin and musk, a hint of flesh, as he began to lick the head and pump the shaft with his hand. Stan got creative, licking from the root to the tip, over and over again. Then he took it in his mouth. He hoped he wasn’t using teeth. Also, that area was sensitive (as well he knew), so he didn’t want to hurt Rick… well, not now.

“Awww, c’mon,” Rick said with a frustrated groan. “You gotta really suck it, imagine… you’re trying to…uhhh get a thick milkshake from a straw. Really get in there and suck hard.”

So Stan tightened his lips around Rick’s erection and sucked down harder. From the contented sighing, Stan could tell what he was doing was working. Rick’s cock was about average size, so taking the whole the thing in his mouth wasn’t a problem… and he found himself enjoying it. In fact, he was getting pretty turned on extracting pleasure from the other man. When he got tired or his throat hurt, he’d pull back, and start licking at the tip, the underside of the shaft, then went back to taking it all in his mouth. It took a while, and Stan’s own cock was aching by the time Rick began to thrust in Stan’s mouth, emptying his balls in three messy spurts. The liquid was warm, salty and thick… Stan didn’t want to think too hard about the jizz in his mouth. He got up, went to the sink and spit in the drain, then splashed water in his mouth, trying to get rid of the salty tang that remained. Rick was looking at him with gimlet eyes over his half finished beer. 

“C’mere,” Rick said. “My turn.”

Stan sat down on the couch. With one fluid motion Rick had unzipped Stan’s trousers with his teeth, yanked down the front of Stan’s boxers, and soon had Stan’s cock in his hot, wet, engulfing mouth, sucking and licking like a pro. Stan twined his fingers through Rick’s hair, staring blankly at the tv. Between the smack and the blow job, he felt like a god. Maybe this town wasn’t so bad after all.


	11. Life in Arkham

~Chapter 11: Life in Arkham~~~~~

Stan found that selling cars suited him down to the ground. Mostly it was about telling people what they wanted to hear, garnished by a few…lies and half-truths, aided by his own charm and the occasional joke. Geez, people around here were some of the dumbest people he’d ever met. A few of them had honest-to-christ lobotomy scars. His days fell into a routine: get up, eat breakfast with Rick and a little irish in his coffee and cereal. He wasn’t a drunk like Rick, it just helped to smooth the rough edges of the day out. Off to work selling lemons to the unsuspecting and the apathetic. He had lunch with Mr. Sargent, usually going to some chowder house and grabbing a beer. After that, back to selling cars. He’d clock out go home, and if Rick came back early, they’d do something: fuck, watch tv, smoke some grass, or do a few lines of whatever Rick wanted. On the nights when Rick wasn’t home (and there were lots of those), he’d do the dope on his own, watch TV on the nod. Then Rick would come back, muttering some bullshit about having to work late, but reeking of cooze. And Stan told himself it didn’t matter. Most of the time, he was too high to care. And it didn’t hurt him. Like Rick said, they weren’t married or anything.

It was the last week of August, and he had gotten home, just taken off his shoes, and put his feet up when the phone started to ring. Rick was not home yet. Sighing, Stan got to his feet and trudged over to it.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hi, Stan." It was Stanford. “Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Things have gotten busy over here, what with this project and the kids. I realized I didn’t have your number, so I asked Rick and, well…”

“Yeah, alright, if that’s your excuse for not visiting.” Stan grumbled in a good-natured way.

“Well, about that. I was wondering what you are doing this Sunday?” Stanford asked.

“Nothin',” Stan shrugged. “Why?”

“I was thinking of having you over for a cook out and inviting you. Rick too, if he wants to come,” Stanford said.

“I don’t know about Rick, but I’ll be there,” Stan said. “Just gimme your address, Ford.”

“Great! Lemme tell you where we are,” Stanford said.

Stan found a pencil and notepad and scribbled down the directions to his brother’s house.

“And what time?” Stan said.

“About 3 or 4,” Stanford said. “I really want you meet the rest of my family. Hope to see you there.”

“You can count on it," Stan said. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

And Stan hung up the phone.

An hour later Rick came home. Rick said nothing as he crossed the room and grabbed a beer from the fridge, then looked back at Stan: “You’re not high yet, are ya?”

“Nope,” Stan paused. “Look Rick, my brother is having a cookout on Sunday. He was wondering if you wanted to come too.”

“Naw. The thing is Stan, I’m not a family person, I don’t really like kids or wives or all that bullshit,” Rick said, took a swallow from his beer, belched, and replied, “I’m a lone wolf.”

He sat down on the couch next to Stan and began to watch the television. “Don’t you have a sister?”

“Yeah, but she stopped writing me years ago,” Rick said. “I wasn’t answering the letters, so she got the idea to fuck off.”

“So… you don’t care about her?” Stan began slowly.

“Caring only leads to pain, Stan,” Rick sighed. “Mental and physical. Eh, she’s happy. Or least was happy, last I h-heard. “

“You read the letters, then.” Stan said.

“I had nothing better to do, Punchy.” Rick said. “Me and her, we’re so different anyhow. I’m not talking about this.”

“Fine,” Stan replied. He remembered that night back in June when Rick came tripping his brains out, and everything Rick said… everything that Stan could understand of it. So he didn’t want to talk his shit childhood or family. Stan could accept that. He sipped his own beer, and went back to watching tv.

The next day was mostly uneventful. Stan noticed his stash was running low. He finished it off after work and spent the evening high as a kite, laying on the sofa. It made up for the fact he was alone. He was on the nod, drifting in and out of sleep. He didn’t remember when Rick came in, or the sunset. But sometime when it was dark, he heard a scuttling in the walls and woke up. He saw a shape on the coffee table. There was a large rat, its teeth gleaming, sitting on its haunches, looking at him and grinning. He startled, rubbed his sore eyes, and looked back. The thing, if it had even been there, was gone. Must have been a dream.

He didn’t care… he’d been high anyhow. But he felt a slight shudder in his stomach. He sat up, stretched, and got to his feet, still yawning. He wandered over to the bedroom and saw the sleeping form of Rick huddled under the covers. A fan was going, providing a cooling breeze. Stan took off his rumpled suit and slipped into bed next to Rick. The noise of the fan covered the other sounds of the night, and soon he was asleep again.

He woke up to the sounds of clacking dishes and water being splashed around. He got out of bed, put in his contacts, and moseyed over to the kitchen. Rick was doing the dishes in his underpants.

“It was g-gg-getting disgusting, ya know. Don’t you ever wash up, Punchy?” Rick said with a glare.

“Why should I, when you get pissed and do it?” Stan replied, laughing.

Rick ‘hmmphed’ and went back to doing the dishes sullenly. “Asshole.” he muttered.

“Hey, why didn’t you make any coffee?” Stan asked, getting a clean mug from the dish rack.

With that, Rick balled up the sodden dish rag and chucked it at Stan, hitting him square in the face. As the sopping cloth covered his face, smelling of soap and dirty dishes, listening to Rick cackle, Stan felt his temper rise.

“WHY YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Stan yelled, as he tore the dish rag off his face.

“Uh-oh,” Rick said. “Y-Y— You feelin’ a bit wet Punchy?”

And Rick sprinted across the kitchen. Stan lunged caught him by the back and almost tackled Rick, if Rick hadn’t elbowed him in the gut.

“FUCK YOU, YOU SKINNY FREAK!” Stan thundered, rubbing his stomach.

“I wish you w-w-would, it’s been a while!” Rick called from in the living room, doing a sassy little dance.

Stan watched and felt his anger start to dissipate, and arousal start. He laughed. “I’m gonna get you, Sanchez!”

He grabbed Rick and pushed him down on the couch. Rick then countered with flailing hands and elbows. Stan found Rick was pinning him down now, Stan’s left arm pinned to his back, the other wrapped around his neck and was tightening. As he slammed Stan’s face into the cushions, for a moment, Stan wondered what the landlord thought of this thumping around. But the noises they had to put up at night from downstairs... Stan decided, they were getting even.

“SAY IT!” barked Rick.

“NO!” Stan said and began to gag. “NO-NO…. aaccck!”

He felt Rick’s hard-on pressed against his ass. It just made Stan hornier.

“This turning you on, Sanchez?” he said in a choked voice.

“Y-y-you know it,” Rick growled.

“Fine, I’ll say it…” Stan said. “Uncle…”

And Rick released him.

“You want me to fuck you?” Stan asked hopefully. He reached up and rubbed his neck, trying to get the soreness out.

“Naw, I wanna f-f-f-fuck you, Take one for the team, Punchy.” Rick said. “Team Rick Is Getting Bored.”

Stan looked at him suspiciously, but part of his brain was saying maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, and his cock was agreeing. “Alright. If it hurts too much, I’m gonna sock you, Rick.”

“Trust me, Stan,” Rick said with a grin, “Y-y-you’ll like it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stan said sarcastically.

“C’mon P-P-Punchy. Have I ev-ev-ever lead you astray?” Rick smirked.

Stan smiled back. “Yep, that’s why I like you.”

“Then drop trou and lemme me fuck you, Stan,” Rick said.

Stan, sighing, unzipped his pants and let them and his boxers fall to the floor. He was still bent over the sofa.

“Whoa, your ass is hairy as fuck,” Rick commented.

“Yeah yeah, I’m a gorilla, get K-Y and get on with it, before I change my mind,” Stan commented.

“Naw, I like hairy asses, and it was in one of the milk crates in front of the TV,” Rick said.

Stan thought about how fucking gross that was, but they were both pretty gross guys.

Stan could hear Rick whistling a bit as he slathered on the lube. It felt cold and wet on his naked asshole.

“So you gonna fuck around, or fuck me?” Stan asked.

“L-l-listen Palooka, it isn’t that simple… Your ass isn’t used to to having stuff shoved up it,” Rick said. “First you gotta relax, like… relax your butt hole.”

“Uhhh right…” Stan wondered how the hell a person could just relax their butt hole.

He felt something probing the edges of his asshole, and he automatically clenched up.

“It’s just a finger, geez,” Rick said. “Besides, it feels good, doesn’t it?”

Stan could feel the finger gently tracing the outside of his… and yeah, it did feel pretty okay. He let out a sigh.

“Now let it in…” Rick said.

The finger was at the entrance, so Stan tried to relax and started to unclench… The finger was soon inside of him, slick and probing. He felt it stroke something inside of him, and nearly let out a moan of pleasure at the feeling. Then it was joined by another finger, slick and stroking. Stan didn’t… hate it.. In fact, it felt fucking amazing. He wanted to be filled by something bigger, more substantial. Rick’s cock.

“Okay,” Stan said. “Do it.”

“R-r-right,” Rick replied. “Let’s get you fucked.”

And he he felt the cock slip in. It hurt, but not as much as he thought it would, nothing like the doctors’, in fact. As Rick’s cock moved inside of him, there were nuggets of pleasure that kept getting closer and closer. The pleasure was intense, almost overwhelming, and he wanted more, he could feel it build and build… He tried to stifle any noises, he didn’t want Rick to get a big head. Then Rick’s hand wrapped around his cock, and it was getting too intense, too overwhelming, Rick’s thrusts were getting deeper, harder, faster and Stan craved it. As he was being jacked off, he couldn’t think, he found himself making noises… noises that didn’t sound like anything intelligible, just random babbling and moaning. Then it was too much, he knew he was going to come and there was no stopping it. With a grunt and a groan, his orgasm overtook him. If getting fucked in the ass felt this good, no wonder people did it! Then Rick came with a drawn out sigh, collapsing on top of Stan. Rick had withdrawn, but still lay on top of him. They stayed like that for what seemed like a long time.

“Welp, the couch is ruined,” Stan said, and they both began to laugh. Rick rolled off of him and stared into his eyes. Rick’s eyes were grey, and his were brown. They were laughing, and in that moment it everything seemed perfect. But that could be the sex chemicals talking.  
***

Sunday rolled around, brilliant and clear. Stan and Rick, of course, spent it as they had the day before: inside, fucking each other’s brains out, and smoking pot. And then Stan glanced at the clock near the bed. It was 3: 01.

“Oh SHIT! I GOTTA SHOWER AND GET OUTTA HERE!” Stan yelled as he sprang out of the mutual bed.

“Awww, really? N-n-now?” Rick commented lazily.

“Yeah, I can’t show up at Ford’s stinkin’ like weed and sex.” Stan added as he rushed towards the bathroom. “I have to find my contacts, damn!”

Rick watched with an amused expression on his face as Stan crashed into the bathroom and began to wash up. He had hardly moved when Stan ran back into the bedroom in a towel, trying to find clean clothes. Rick took a swig from a bottle of vodka on the nightstand and itched his armpit when Stan (now dressed) was frantically smoothing his hair back and running a comb through it.

“Go have f-f-fun pretending you like your family,” Rick said.

“Hey! I do!” Stan said. “Are you sure you don’t wanna come?”

“I see your brother every day at work. Don’t wanna see him on the weekends, Stan,” Rick said.

“Fine,” Stan said. “Bye.”

Stan Pines then drove the toothpaste colored pinto through the town to his brother’s small rented house. The house was brick, with one of those barn-like roofs, barely two stories tall. Stan could tell there were kids living there before he pulled in. The driveway was covered in chalk scribblings, and there were discarded toys scattered around: a trike, roller skates, jump rope, and a whiffle bat. So he parked on the street. He could hear his nieces and nephews in the backyard, screaming, and under it, maybe Debra, telling them to quiet down. Stan walked carefully across the square of green that was the lawn, up the front steps and rang the doorbell. Stanford answered, wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He looked tired, but he smiled at Stan.

“Glad you could make it, Stan,” he said. “Come in. It’s a mess in here, but with three kids, it’s hard not to be.”

Stan followed his brother through the house, over more toys, kids’ shoes, and a half-ruined blanket fort through the open rear door to the back yard. Debra was in a long paisley sundress, her curly hair up in a sloppy bun. For a moment, Stan realized once again that Ford had married a real knock-out. Then his attention was stolen by a dirty naked screaming toddler rolling in a mud puddle.

“NO SHOWWA! NO SHOWWA! NO SHOWWA! NO SHOWWA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!” The child was screaming and flailing in the mud.

“‘C’mon Jason, If you’re not clean you can’t have dinner. We’re having franks and hamburgers. Also your uncle Stan is here. Don’t you wanna show him what a good, clean boy you are?” Debra was bending over to address the mud-caked boy.

“I DUNNO WANNA TAKE SHOWWA!” Jason wailed.

“Okay then, how about a bath?” asked Derba.

Jason looked at her with big blue eyes, considered, sucked his thumb, then said calmly: “Kay Mommy.”

Debra took his hand and led him, still buck-naked, to a nearby garden hose and began washing him down.

She looked up at Stan. “Meet your nephew.” She rolled her eyes after she led the now sopping Jason into the house, presumably to a bathtub.

Stan chuckled. "Hey, I don’t blame him.”

“Who are you?” asked a high piping voice.

Two wet little girls in swimsuits were sitting in the crooked branches of a old tree, watching. One them had a green swimsuit and short hair, the other had wet pigtails and blue swimsuit. The blue swimsuited little girl hid her face. The one in the green swimsuit had asked. Stan tried to recall her name….

“I’m your Uncle Stan, Sarah!”

“Did you bring us presents?" she asked.

“Sorry, kiddo, not this time,” Stan replied.

The other girl had curled into a ball with her palms over her face.

“What’s up with your sister?” Stan asked.

“Marni’s bein’ shy," Sarah said.

“Why are you two in the tree?” asked Stanford.

“We’re squirrels, Daddy,” Sarah said.

Marni looked up from her hands at her sister and added: “I’m a squirrel princess and Sarah’s a kung-fu squirrel.”

“So you’re gonna stay up there?” Stanford said, hands on his hips.

“Yep. Squirrels live in trees," Sarah said.

“Squirrels also don’t get any ice cream.” Stanford added.

Marni looked at her twin sister and Sarah looked back at her. They moved next to each other and whispered back and forth. “Okay, then we’re not squirrels,” Sarah added.

She and Marni climbed down the tree a little ways to a large branch nearer to the ground and JUMPED off, then ran inside.

“Get cleaned up, and put on some dry clothes!” Ford called after his girls.

Marni scampered inside, but Sarah stopped, looking at both of them and grinning. “Hey! Your Daddy’s twin, Uncle Stan!”

“Yep!” Stan answered. Ford winked at his girls.

“MARRRNIIII!” Sarah squealed as she ran in the house: “DADDY’S A TWIIIN, LIKE US!”

After the kids ran into the cool darkness of the house, Stanford began to clean off the picnic table, with Stan’s help. As they worked, they talked.

“So, what have you been doing?” Ford asked. “Nothing illegal?”

“I’m not always doing something illegal. I have a real job. I’m selling used cars over at Sargent’s car lot,” replied Stan.

“From what I’ve heard about that place, I don’t know if it counts as legitimate. Did you get the Pinto there?” asked Ford, giving him a cheeky smile.

“No. Rick bought that thing,” Stan said, rolling his eyes. “Still got the Stanford mobile?”

“Yep, she’s under a tarp in storage. Debra thinks it’s not safe for the kids, so she got a station wagon...” Ford sighed.

“Ooooh,” Stan shook his head. “You’re becoming a total nerd! But I already knew you were, Poindexter.”

Stanford shook his head and smiled. “You know I’m the ‘good’ one.”

“Yep. Teacher’s pet, college, met a nice Jewish girl and married her,” Stan said with only a hint of bitterness.

“One of had to be. You were always breaking Ma’s heart," said Ford. “Besides, I can still have fun if I want to. Remember the fight in San Juan?”

“Yep. You still got the scar where that guy knifed you?” Stan asked. “We showed him, kicked his ass and his friend’s asses!”

“If you hadn’t been flirting with his girlfriend, he wouldn’t have gotten so mad," Ford sighed.

“Heh. Heh. Yeah,” Stan chuckled.

Stan noticed that in the time they were talking, they had cleaned the backyard.

“Welp, I’d better get the grill started. Go in the kitchen and ask Debs for the Hebrew nationals and hamburger patties,” Ford said.

“Okay,” Stan nodded.

“Stan, I only get in trouble when you’re around,” Ford said. “It’s good you’re back. You keep me from getting too boring.”

The house was dark and cool inside. But there was a commotion coming from the lighted kitchen. It wasn’t a large room, and the pink walls with the teal trim meant it had last been renovated was in the 50s. Stan entered. Debra was rinsing some salad greens over the sink while the kids dangled their legs at the kitchen table. Jason and Sarah were playing with toy dinosaurs, and Marni was brushing the hair of a doll. Debra looked up when she heard his footsteps.

“Hey,” he said. “Ford wanted me to get the hot dogs and hamburgers.”

“Oh,” Debra said, smiling, her heel eyes twinkling but tired. “They are on the middle shelf of the fridge. Get yourself and Ford a beer, too.”

Stan shrugged. “Thanks.”

Stan got out the burgers, hot dogs, and two beers. As he walked by the kids, he heard a small clattering on the floor. Right by his feet was a red plastic T-rex.

“Oh no, Johnny Roar fell in the lava!” Jason cried.

Stan moved the beers on top of the hamburger patties, reached down, plucked the toy up.

“Here ya go, kid.” Stan said, placing the toy dinosaur on the table. Jason eagerly took his toy and smiled. “You saved him from the lava, Uncle Stan! You’re a hero!”

“Uh, thanks.” Stan said, and went out to get his brother the food. Ford smiled. He had already set up the grill. They talked as the kids swarmed out and Debra set up the table. As Ford cooked up the hot dogs, Stan was spread out on a deck chair, listening to the kids play. It was pleasant hearing the yelling, giggling and screaming mostly. (He could do with out the screaming.)  
Sarah was chasing Jason and Marni around the yard. There was the smell of cooking meat, Debra and Ford chatting. That’s when Jason and Marni ran behind Stan’s chair.

“Hey kids, what are you doin'?” Stan asked casually.

“I’m a fairy and Jason’s a stegosaurus. We’re hiding from Sarah. She’s a T-rex,” Marni whispered.

Jason nodded, looking serious as Sarah stumped nearer.

“Dinosaurs eat fairies?” Stan asked.

“Yep, bad ones gobble ‘um up.” nodded Marni.

“And I’m gonna eat all of them, crunch their bones!” Sarah yelled, smiling.

“Well I’m a Stan—saurous!” Stan roared, got to his feet, and began to play chase Sarah as the other two cheered him on.

“Go Uncle Stan!” Marni chanted.

“Get da bad guy!” Jason said.

“Wait… who said I was on your side?” Stan grinned.

The other two giggled, shrieked, and ran. He played tag (more or less) with his nieces and nephew for about ten minutes, until Debra called: “Dinnertime!”

The odd thing was, Stan actually had fun. They were his family. As he took the twin girls’ hands, with Jason bringing up the rear, he felt a warmth settle inside him. He liked this, being an uncle. The kids insisted on sitting on his side of the picnic table, even Jason, who usually wanted to be next to his mommy. They had hot dogs, hamburgers, tossed salad, potato salad, and knishes which where almost as good as Ma’s. He drank his beer and talked with Ford as the mosquitoes showed up. The sun was setting, the kids were drowsing, cuddled up to Debra, Sara lazily itching her elbow. Jason was fast asleep on his Mom’s lap. Marni was picking petals off some wilting flowers she held in her hands. They only protested a little when Debra herded them into the house for bedtime. As Stan sat with his brother watching the sunset, he hoped something like this would happen again.

“Remember that day Ma told us that her friend’s niece was coming down to visit. And you made me volunteer to show her around?” Ford said.

“Yep,” Stan shrugged. “That was Debra, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ford grinned. “Funny how things turn out. What if there’s a Stanford in another reality… that didn’t do that?”

Stan looked sideways at his brother. “Not this again, Poindexter.”

“It’s sorta what I’m doing at Miskatonic, right now. It’s groundbreaking, really,” said Ford. “Looking into different worlds, different… dimensions.”

“You always were a nerd,” Stan shrugged.

“Hey, you were just as bad,” Ford chuckled.

“Yep, but I outgrew it,” Stan said.

Debra joined them, beer in her hand. “I got them to bed,” she sighed happily. She slid in next to her husband and looped his arm around her. "What were you two talking about?”

“About how lucky I am,” Stanford said.

They talked some more, mostly bullshit. Debra was going to go back to school when Jason was older and become a teacher or something. Small talk. Comfortable talk.

It was after the sun had set, the crickets were out, and tree frogs were calling, that Stan left them. He began to drive home.

Somehow he found himself driving down the road to his dealer’s house. It wasn’t that he needed it, it was just... it would really top off the day to get good and high right now. He made his way up the long winding driveway, to the rambling, dilapidated mansion that Boaz Marsh called home. He rang the doorbell, and Mrs. Marsh started howling, like always. Eventually, Boaz opened the door, the stench of smoke and B.O wafting over Stan as he banged on the ceiling with a broom handle to get his mother to be quiet.

“Hey, Stan, come in. You got money?” Boaz said with a sleazy smile.

“Yeah,” Stan said. “I would have called.”

“Yeah well, you’re lucky. It’s been in high demand tonight. I have some left, though,” Boaz said. Stan made his way through the winding stacks of of rubbish to the living room.

“Right, fine,” Stan mumbled. “I have the money.”

There was a girl passed out the couch. Well, a woman. In a green dress, with long dark hair falling over her face. She was clearly on the nod, so Stan sat on the very end. Her feet were bare, her pale toes had webbing in between them.

Boaz came back with the drugs. He looked at the couch and gave the girl a nudge. “Hey, wake up, sleepyhead.”

And the girl stirred and groaned, sitting up and stretching. She pushed back her hair. It was Malahath Sargent. She was wearing a matching choker with the dress. When she saw Stan, a smile curved her lips.

“Hey there, Stan,” she said dreamily. “Looks like we got something in common.”

“Heh,” Stan chuckled. “I guess we do.”

Boaz had weighed out the drugs and was packing them up. Stan paid him.

“Hey Stan, I still got some left,” Malahath said. “You wanna do a line or two with me?”

Stan shrugged, why not? “Sure.”

“It’s cool with me,” Boaz said, an lit up a discarded joint he’d found in a ashtray.

Stan watched her cut lines as the TV babbled. Getting high with the bosses’ daughter... Eh, why not? It wasn’t like Rick would bewaiting up for him. Besides, she liked to have fun. He could use some of that right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I started school and new job so I've had very little time to write. But I finally got it out. Also the Line: "Take one for team, Team Rick's bored." Belongs to my beta Gerbilfluff.


	12. interrogating the monster

Stan Pines was in a nightmare he’d kept having for a week since last Sunday. In the nightmare, he was laying on the couch at Boaz Marsh’s, in a drugged stupor; Mother Marsh was howling, dragging her withered legs as she crawled towards him in a stained pink nightgown. Her pale face wasn’t human… it was green scaly with wide fish eyes, a gaping fish mouth.. gill slits on her neck and a rough bald head. She was clutching a large knife in one hand as she slithered towards him, and he couldn’t move, not one finger… In his drugged state, he couldn’t even whimper or moan. She was getting closer and closer, wailing and growling, the knife ready to slice his guts up. In a instant, as her stinking breath hit his face (How could he smell it in a dream?), he knew Malahath, Mr. Sargent and Boaz were the same, they were all these horrible fish people, and they’d let him be murdered.

He woke up with a start. The room was dark. Rick was snoring; a standing fan was blowing a cool breeze over his body and the alarm clock read 12:00 pm. Stan was about to close his eyes, and then the phone rang. He groaned and nudged Rick.

“Hey… Rick, get the phone, it’s ringing.” Stan grumbled into his pillow.

Rick mumbled: “W-w-why do I have to g-g-get it, Punchy?”

“It’s probably for you,” Stan muttered.

“F-f-fine,” Rick grunted.

He got up. Stan used the opportunity to steal his pillows and put them under his head. Stan heard Rick answer the phone in the other room and was just about to drift back to sleep when the bedroom room light was unceremoniously flicked on. It was bright and jarring. Stan groaned and pulled the blankets over his head. The blankets were ripped off.

“What the fuck, Sanchez!?” Stan shouted.

“G-g-get up, Punchy,” Rick said. “You need to come with me, we need m-m-muscle for this…..” Rick made a vague circular gesture. “E-e-endeavor.”

“What?” Stan sat up and rubbed his eyes, the world blurry, his muscles aching.

“Mr. King caught this ya know,” Rick burped. “-extra dimensional entity… He wants us to g-g-get information from it on how to get to other dimensions. This is fucking big, Stan! This could be a fucking break through!”

Stan was puzzled. “Why do ya need me?”

“Because,” Rick stated mildly, “It ain’t talkin’. It needs to be roughed up, maybe then it’ll talk.”

“Alright,” Stan said. “Make me some coffee first, I’ll come.”

Rick smiled. “That’s t-t-the spirit, Palooka.”

They got dressed.

As the coffee percolated, Stan tried to remember what little he knew about this nonsense. “So what’s it look like? Does it have uhhh tentacles and shit?”

Rick raised his unibrow. “Naw, it’s not powerful enough to uhhh to-” Rick took a sip from his flask. “-do much with its real form, yet. It’s young, Punchy. Like an adolescent version of whatever these things are. So it possessed a drifter. And it’s been having fun. By fun I mean slitting up hookers from Maine to Connecticut. ”

“Geez, that’s fucked up,” Stan said.

“Yep,” Rick nodded. “It got sloppy outside of of Boston. Mr. King’s people caught it and brought it to the local loony bin. We’re going to meet the rest of the technomancy department there.”

The coffee was ready. Stan poured himself a mug and drank it down. Rick put some in a yellow monogrammed thermos topped with a generous helping of whiskey.

“Let’s get going Punchy, get the lead out,” Rick grumbled.

They went out to the car. Outside, it was muggy, and gray clouds covered the sky. A late summer thunderstorm was coming and the night was oddly silent. The crickets had quieted down, and nothing else stirred. They climbed in the car and drove out to the asylum.

The old madhouse was a compound of towering hostile, square brick. There was a chain link fence around it topped with barbed wire. Rick showed a security guard at a booth in the front his ID. They drove through and parked in the front, entering the lobby to find the others waiting: Stanford, unshaven, sleepy, with tousled hair. Fiddleford, in a light grey seersucker suit, alert, pacing like he’d had more than his share of coffee already. And Dr. Hinter, in a white button up men’s dress shirt and a pair of slacks. She looked vaguely bored. The lobby was shabby, the tile floor was chipped, the tan walls needed a good scrub, the furniture had seen better days, and the all the potted plants were rubber.

“Stan?” Ford asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Rick said I should come, to provide muscle,” Stan replied.

“I don’t know if we’ll need that,” Stanford said looking worried.

“What’s the hold up?” Rick asked Dr. Hinter.

“They aren’t letting us in,” she said, shaking her head.

“Mr. King said everything was taken of,” Fiddleford muttered as he paced. “Why in tarnation can’t we get past the lobby?”

Through the inner glass door leading from the lobby to the institution proper came a small bespectacled woman in a black suit, her silver hair in a bun. She was flanked by two large meaty male orderlies in their white uniforms. She stepped into the lobby, her eyes narrowed.

“I am Dr. Black-Flashman, the head of psychology here at Arkham.” She spoke with a cultured British accent. “I’d like you to know I in no way approve of what is about to occur.”

“Yeah, we don’t care,” Rick said with a shrug.

“We swear we won’t hurt him, if we can manage it,” Fiddleford said with a nervous smile.

She sighed. “That is not the reason I disapprove. Working here for the past twenty years, I’ve seen many, many disturbing things. But that—that— entity known as Mr. Abel Milch Grimes is the worst, most dangerous— and it poses a great risk to my patients and staff. I did not want it housed here,” she passed. Her voice became sharper, harsher. “But Mr. King made so many generous donations, my objections were overridden by the board.”

“What does this have to do with us?” Stanford asked.

“You can interview ‘Mr. Grimes’, if you wish. Do what you can to extract your answers— if you get it to tell you— but my staff will not aide beyond bringing it into the room and setting up some of the ‘equipment’ you brought,” she said. The word 'equipment' was spoken in a tone as if it was made of shit.

She took out a ring of keys and opened the glass doors. They walked through, and she continued her talk as they moved briskly down the hallway. “We have heavily sedated it, because of the danger this Mr. Grimes poses. You can wake it if you wish, but this whole thing is a fool’s errand…”

And then Stan tuned her out. She kept rattling on as they walked down the dimly lit hallways of the asylum, mostly about Mr. King, Miskatonic’s interference, and some guy called Herbert West…Blah... blah… blah. Stan needed more coffee. He wondered vaguely why she kept calling the the patient ‘it’.

They were going downstairs, deeper and deeper into the bowels of asylum. The walls were gray concrete; there was a smell of mildew and damp stone. The doors down here each had one tiny sliding window on the top and one on the bottom… one to check on the loon, and one to slide a dinner tray in. Stan expected more noise, but down here it was quiet. Their footsteps echoed.

Stanford took out his cigarettes and lit one.

“These cells are unoccupied, aren’t they?” he said calmly, taking a puff.

“Yes,” Dr. Black-Flashman said. “They used to put the most troubled cases down here, but since I’ve been head of psychology, the practice has stopped.”

“Then why are we putting Mr. Grimes here?” Fiddleford asked.

“Because I don’t want to bother the other patients,” Dr. Black-Flashman replied. “Mr. Grimes… is not… Whatever he was, it is not that now.”

Dr. Hinter sighed. “Are we at the room yet? Having to listen to your tedious conversation is annoying.”

“Yeah.” Rick took a swig from his flask. “You and me both, Ushas.”

“We are here,” Dr. Black-Flashman grumbled. She flicked on the light switch outside the door and unlocked the nondescript metal door of the cell.

The room was stone, damp and bare except for the equipment Mr. King had given them, and a chair in the middle of the room. Among the equipment was a boxy machine with knobs and wires on it, an extension cord snaking out into the hallway. It had a two long wires coming out of the top with two small rubber pads. There was also a very old heavy leather bound yellowed book, with some chalk and a step ladder in the corner, along with some hefty metal chains.

“I suppose I’ll make the circle,” Fiddleford said, taking up the book and chalk. He moved the chair to the side and turned to a bookmarked page. He held the book in one hand and the chalk in the other as he stood on the step ladder and drew on the low ceiling. He was very careful drawing the circle, putting each weird symbol in it’s place. Then he moved the stepladder away and put the chair dead center in the circle.

“Do we need all this crap?” Stan asked.

“Yes,” came the reply from everyone else.

Mr. Grimes was out cold when the orderlies wheeled him in. He was in a straight jacket, and he flopped around when the orderlies sat him in the chair. Stan took a look at the fellow. He was a shrimp: small, pale, sickly, with stubble on his cheeks and a sunken face with a yellowish tint to it. His greasy brown hair lay limply on his head. This was the guy they were so scared of? This guy had really killed those hookers? 

The orderlies left the room, their eyes fixed on Mr. Grimes as if they were scared. Stan watched as Ushas taped the small rubber pads from the machine to Mr. Grimes’ forehead.

“This technology is so crude. Not the way I would have done it,” she huffed.

Rick took the chains and, with Stan’s help, looped them around the unconscious Mr. Grimes.

Stanford turned on the machine. It hummed into life.

“Go on,” Rick said. “Wake up our s-s-sleeping beauty.”

Ushas removed a vial of sparkling powder from a pocket in her slacks, and with a precise movement blew it in the face of ‘Mr. Gimes.’

The man in the chair woke up, body instantly stiffening and sitting straighter. He opened his eyes. They were a dull brown for a moment. In an instant, they flashed silver, as the entity woke up and became aware.

A grin spread across Mr. Grimes’ face as he looked around. He began to cackle, loud and harshly. He laughed so long he began to cough. He continued his choking cough, then he started to vomit up blood.

“Jesus!” Stan shouted and darted towards the guy, trying to help.

Rick stood in his way. “Don’t. It’s just a gimmick.”

The thing inside Mr. Grimes stopped coughing up blood and, with lips coated in red, began to bark and yip like a dog, snort like a pig, and gurgle. Finally, it spoke in a high childish voice: “Well, well well… who do we have here. A spic, two kikes, a faggot and an uppity bitch.” It grinned, and then, speaking with a voice as deep, dark and gritty as the unfinished basement, added: “This is going to be fun.”

Stan balled his fist at the slur, but Rick put out an arm to stop him.

Stanford stepped forward slowly. “Are we addressing the entity inside Mr. Grimes?”

Its eyes flashed a liquid silver, like mercury. It said in a mocking tone: “‘Am I addressing the entity inside Mr. Grimes?’ HAHA! There is no Mr. Grimes, Christ Killer! Abel Milch Grimes isn’t a real person. I have no idea what the name of this poor fellow I’m riding is. All part of Mr. King’s game. Now I’m going to have some fun too.”

The entity strained in his chains. It scowled deeper, strained harder. Then it looked up. “Oh, oh…. clever, clever meat sacks! I see you’ve put a ward on the ceiling to stop me from having too much fun! Well, you’ll see, I still have my ways. I can still play with you, and we’re gonna play ‘two truths and a lie’.”

“C-c-cut out the bullshit. Mr. King wants to know how you got into this dimension," Rick said.

“Bzzzzz Bzzzzz Bzzzzzz.” The entity imitated a fly exactly. “Bzzzz. Bzzzz Bzzzz….. you fucking wetback. Your mother lay dead in that house for three days. Three days with her head smashed in and the flies crawling all over her corpse. Your father just left her there. Carried on drinking. You couldn’t be bothered to even attend her funeral. You’re gonna be just like him: a worthless, shitty drunk.”

Rick blinked and shook his head. “Y-y-you think you’re going to get to me with your fucking slurs and talk about my dead mother.”

“What about your sister, Ricardo? The one you send money to still. But you were too cowardly to stop your father raping her. You only tried once, and he broke your arm for the trouble. Never again after that. Just shut your eyes and put a pillow over your head. You could have stopped him. You were clever enough," it said in the same mocking voice.

“I was a kid! He smashed my inventions, every chance he got! I couldn’t do anything!” Rick shouted. “I was a fucking kid!”

The entity chuckled. “That’s a sorry excuse and you know it.”

“Y-y-you’re trying to get to me, and it’s not going to work. Fids, you handle this, while I. Ya know. Cool off.” Rick said. He took a pull from his flask and a step back. Breathing hard, he took another sip from his flask.

Fiddleford came forward.

“What is your purpose in this dimension?” he asked, trying to be as calm as possible, though there was a slight tremor in his voice.

The entity spoke in a gravelly, rough voice, like a carny: “I was hungry, but mainly it was for shits and giggles. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you Mcgucket?”

“Wha-what do you mean?”

“You’re a fucking faggot. Always have been," the entity said. “You like sucking dick and taking it in the ass.”

“I’m not! I’m married, I have a son… I love my wife,” Fiddleford stuttered.

“That doesn’t stop you. Gina says she can share you. Says she loves you… but how long before you bring some faggy STD home, and she’ll leave you? You think your boy wants a queermo for a Dad, huh? You will always be nothing but a redneck pansy with pig shit on your knees. All your work is for nothing, Mcgucket," the entity continued, its eyes flashing silver again.

“No! I-I… you have no idea what you are talking about!” Fiddleford was flustered, blushing.

“You do. So do Rick and Stan," the entity said. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you two, the beaner and the big-nose Jew… ‘roommates.' That second bedroom isn’t—“

And it couldn’t talk, because Stan had punched it in the face.

“SHUT UP!” Stan bellowed.

Mr. Grimes’ head jolted back with the impact. After the punch, it spit out teeth, grinning a shit-eating grin with the body's mouth. “Touched a nerve, didn’t I?”

Dr. Hinter sighed. “Let me handle this, boys." She approached the entity and spoke: “What are you?”

The entity began bucking its taken hips, giddily humping air as it screamed: “IA! IA! SHUB-NIGGURATH! THE BLACK GOAT OF THE WOODS WITH A THOUSAND YOUNG!”

“Yes, yes,” she sighed boredly. “That’s what you are descended from, but you haven’t answered the question.”

It smirked at her. “What are you, Ushas?” Or should I call you by your real name? You aren’t what you appear at all. Also your extracurricular activities…” The entity’s silver eyes looked from her to Rick, then it smirked and humped the air once again. “Such base things for such a superior mind, tsk.”

Dr. Hinter wasn’t fazed. “I get bored. There is little else to do here.”

The entity inside the drifter broke into a smile. “You will watch your world burn, and be helpless to stop it.”

“Nonsense," she said nervously. “I don’t… care about… that place.”

“You will never run through the silver grasses, with the orange sky above. You will never be able to go home again," it said.

“I don’t want to,” she sniffed, but seemed shaken. “I never liked it there, and you are straying from the topic.”

“I’m not answering to Mr. King’s bitch,” the entity sneered. “Because that’s all you are, isn’t it? You are nothing but King’s pet, and he keeps you on a very short leash… doesn’t he?”

“I am a no one’s bitch," she countered. “Mr. King and I have an arrangement… I’m just holding up my end of the bargain.”

“Because you have to, bitch. He’s forcing you to. You can’t slip out of this. You can’t betray him like you betrayed your friends,” the entity tittered gleefully. “I have to give him credit. For an old codger, Mr. King sure knows his stuff.”

“Answer the question," she commanded.

“IA! IA! SHUB-NIGGURATH! THE BLACK GOAT OF THE WOODS WITH A THOUSAND YOUNG! IA! IA! SHUB-NIGGURATH! THE BLACK GOAT OF THE WOODS WITH A THOUSAND YOUNG! IA! IA! SHUB-NIGGURATH! THE BLACK GOAT OF THE WOODS WITH A THOUSAND YOUNG! ALL HAIL HER!”

Then it began to rock, twitch and yip like a small dog.

“Stanford,” she said in a voice like ice. “Use the machine, make it answer.”

There was a question in Stanford’s eyes, but he flipped a switch on the machine. The thing called Mr. Grimes stopped yipping, eyes rolling up in its head. It writhed and yowled in pain as the electricity coursed through it for under 30 seconds. Finally, Stanford turned the switch back to the off position. Mr. Grimes lay there slumped in the chair, bound in chains. There was the smell of singed hair.

Stan walked over to the limp figure. “Is he dead? Ya did just fry him.” Stan said.

There was no movement from Mr. Grimes. Maybe they’d killed the poor bastard; it was a possibility. Stan inched closer. The man stunk of blood and piss. Suddenly, with a torrent of growling, gibberish, and snapping his teeth, Mr. Grimes snapped back to life. Stan jumped back with a curse.

Mr. Grimes’s eyes turned silver and it gave a bellowing laugh. “YOU DUMB YID! Come back here Stan, you snipcock. Show me what yer made of,” it ranted in that rough carny voice.

“OH, I’LL SHOW YOU—!”

Stan clenched his fist, ready to give it the old left hook. But Stanford caught his eyes from the corner, and Stan lowered his fist. He walked off and punched a wall.

“Yeah. That’s it, Stan, let them order you around like a little bitch. You already let the wetback fuck you like a woman.”

“YOU LYING BASTARD MOTHERFUCKER!” Stan roared, and charged Mr. Grimes.

Stanford, Rick and Fiddleford held him back.

It laughed again. “Aww, can’t solve everything through punching it, Stan! You have some cunning, but you will never be a genius like these guys. You know you’re here just to beat answers from me. Not that you could win a fair fight. You were always a loser. By the end of next year, you’ll be in a foreign prison cell selling that hairy Jew ass of yours for cigarettes.”

Stan closed his eyes, only half listening to Rick and Fiddleford trying to calm him. It was taunting him, taunting all of them, he had to let it say this…. How did it know this crap? Some of it must be BS, but still…

Rick stepped in front Mr. Grimes, his unibrow quirked: “L-l-look, I’m not calling you Mr. Grimes, because that’s clearly some bullshit name you made up and you won’t tell us your real one… We just want to know how you got in into this dimension.”

The entity tilted its head to one side, spit in Rick’s face, and began to laugh again. “Abel Milch Grimes wasn’t my idea of a name, it was his!” 

“Whose?” asked Rick, wiping the spit off.

“The oh so respectable Mr. Flavius William King, HA HA! That’s another joke! Most of you have no IDEA what he is!” the entity said.

“What are you talking about?” Rick asked. ”What is he?”

Dr. Hinter shifted and sidled up to Rick. “Don’t listen to it, you know it lies.”

“Yeah, Rick! Listen to her instead, she only wants to vivisect you after this's all done!” it shrieked joyfully.

Rick gave a sidelong glance at Dr. Hinter, stepped away from her, then took a swig from his flask and asked: “H-h-how did you get here?”

“How did Mr. King? You know he was in a catatonic state since 1920, and suddenly only snapped out of it last year. Don’t ya wonder how and why?” the entity said in its rough voice.

Rick seemed to think about it and said, “I didn’t know that.”

“Very wealthy family, the Kings. Very curious family too. Madness runs in their bloodline. All dead now, except for poor ol’ Flavius," it added with a chuckle.

Stanford looked at Rick. “It’s not answering our questions. It needs to.”

Rick shot a glance at Stan. “C’mon Punchy, make it answer.”

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Stan said.

He punched it in the gut, and it doubled over.

“Tell us how you got in this dimension,” Dr. Hinter said calmly.

“You think all your knowledge, your ‘superior’ brain, means anything? When you will be killed by your own abominations. Die alone, and unmourned. You can never go home, Ushas,” it spat out.

“I don’t want to go home. I have no need for that place," she said, a bit too haughtily. “They exiled me, after all.”

“And the loss of it will fester and infect that sorry soul of yours until the end,” the entity said.

Stan wondered. Rick told him Dr. Hinter was Anglo-Indian, right? Did the creature mean India or the UK? As far Stan knew, you couldn’t be exiled from those places anymore.

“You- Stanford’s brother.” She pointed at Stan. “Hit it harder.”

Stan glared at her but did it, giving it a sock on the jaw and one in the gut again. It started coughing, hacking, and a thick black liquid poured from it’s mouth.

“Ewww," Stan said.

After a particularly nasty blob of phlegm fell out, it stopped, looking him squarely in the eyes. “Keep going, Jew Boy! The pain just adds spice! Old Flavius is onto something with his dominatrix visits!”

“Kinky,” Rick sighed.

“Look, we don’t care what Mr. King gets up to," Fiddleford said. “That’s not the point.”

“What about what you get up to, hmmmm?”

“That’s not important…” Fiddleford said, blushing and not making eye contact.

"Maybe you became such a faggot, cuz your Daddy died in that mine collapse when you were twelve. Should have been around longer to turn you into a real man," said the thing inside Mr. Grimes.

“That’s... that’s irrelevant." Fiddleford was starting to shake. “Tell us how you got in.”

“His last thoughts were of you, how proud he was of you and how much he loved you… Think he’d still be proud, knowing you turned out to be a cock-sucking fag?” said the thing. “That his only successful child became some ass pirate? A man who cruises public restrooms along the highway, looking for dick?” it said.

Fiddleford looked into the entity’s silver eyes and gulped, red as a beet. He was shaking, but his voice was steady. “My father would love me no matter what. You don’t know what you are talking about-“ Then his voice changed as he lunged at the entity. ”TELL US HOW YOU GOT IN THIS DIMENSION!” The sentenced ended in a screech.

Rick grabbed Fiddleford and restrained him. “Fids, you’re better than this… C-c’mon, it's trying to get to us.”

“Oh, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you? He got to you alright, when you were roommates at MIT. You were just 14, he was 16. Rick, you were so tender, so in need of someone to trust. Someone who wouldn’t betray you like Mommy did. Or leave like Cassandra did. What did Fids do with that trust? He used it to corrupt you," said the thing with a chuckle.

Rick shook his head and took a swig from his flask. “I didn’t need corrupting, asshole.”

“Sure, you acted tough back then. You had your copy of Catcher in the Rye, your stolen whiskey and bummed cigarettes. Your cynicism and sarcasm. The black eye your Daddy gave you as a going away present. But inside you were as naive and soft as a school girl. Ol’ Fiddleford was a seasoned pervert, by then. He took you and he fucked you. Taught you to suck his dick. Took you to bathhouses when he got tired of your cloying affections, so everyone else could get a piece of lil’ Ricardo.”

“Shut up!” Fiddleford screeched again. “Shut up!”

Rick gave a sidelong glance to Fiddleford and took a step away. “My name isn’t Ricardo, n-n-not anymore. Stop fucking around and tell us.”

“What are you gonna do, Ricardo? Have your rough trade boyfriend beat me like your Daddy beat you?” said the entity, grinning. “Or have his sadistic twin give me more electric shocks?”

“We have as long as you want,” Rick said. “Y-y-you think you scare us with your third rate Jack the Ripper impression, and exorcist tricks?”

“You’ll die alone, Ricardo,” It said. “All your genius, and you’ll die face down, choking on your own vomit. No one to save you. You push away everyone who loved you.”

“Yeah, well, that isn’t happening any time soon,” Rick said. “But we will g-g-get you to tell us by the end of this night.”

“Tell you what?” the thing in Mr. Grimes said. “The founder of the King family, Joisah King, fled England on charges of witchcraft in 1721. He came here a pauper, failed at farming, but died old and rich as Croesus. Don’t you wanna know why?”

Rick’s eyes gleamed with interest. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dr. Hinter cut him off: “Stanford, give it another shock. This time, stronger.”

Stanford shrugged, but turned the dial up. Mr. Grimes twitched and moaned. After it was done: “Ow. That was a good one, Stanford Sheeny. But then again, you’ve never had a problem inflicting pain, have you?” Mr. Grimes said with a laugh.

Stanford sighed and said, “Tell us how you got here, and I’ll stop.”

“How I ended up in this poor sap? He only wanted a hot meal and a warm place to sleep, but I’ve never dealt straight. Kinda like your Dad,” Mr. Grimes said.

“Don’t talk about Pa!” Stan said. He charged forward, and no one stopped him as he punched the thing over and over again, hearing the crunch of breaking cartilage.

Rick and his brother pulled him away.

“Heheheh,” Mr. Grimes sniggered. “You guys really bought that whole pack of lies about him? About his job? You didn’t know what he really was, not until the end…”

Fiddleford had composed himself. He took a breath and stepped forward. “Tell us how you got here and we will let you go.”

“You’ll die broken and insane, your family will have abandoned you, your body a ruin. You’ll come full circle, Mcgucket. Nothing but a stupid hillbilly boy. All your genius, your famous Mcgucket labs, it’ll all be nothing,” it said. “A vagrant, a madman, and you’ll have done it all to yourself.”

“That- that doesn’t matter now.” Fiddleford said with surprising calm. “But what we will do to you will. I have the grimoire here...” He lifted the old yellowed book. “That will banish back from where you came. You don’t want to go there. You are barely a fledge, and there are things that prey on what you are.”

“That old dusty thing, banish me?! I’d like you see you try, fag!” it bragged, its silver eyes flashing... but there was something uncertain in its face.

Rick said in a whisper that carried through the room: “Why didn’t he think of that earlier?!”

“There’s a catch, isn’t there?” Stan mumbled uneasily.

“Yes,” said Stanford. “There is a big catch. In order to banish it, we have to erase the ward keeping it restrained.”

“Without it, it would be able to use all of its powers,” Dr. Hinter said. “That is the last thing we want.”

“That’s f-f-fucking great,” Rick said.

“What it can do now is like from a horror flick. What other powers does it have?” Stan asked.

Fiddleford shifted. “Limited telekinesis and superhuman strength.”

“I don’t know what the first one is, and the other doesn’t sound like something I want to mess with,” Stan said.

“Limited Telekinesis, Stan. What it means is Mr. Grimes can move objects, and maybe us, around the room with its, ya know, mind," Rick admitted.

“So it could just knock us about the room like ping-pong balls? No thanks!” Stan said.

“Yes. Mcgucket, your idea is seeming less and less feasible,” Dr. Hinter sighed.

“I was just trying to get it to tell us how it got here,” Fiddleford complained. “Nothing else is working.”

“Maybe…” Stanford began. “We need to really turn the voltage on this thing.”

There was cackling from behind them. “Of course, you’d think of that, Himey,” Mr. Grimes growled.

“Tell us how you got in.” Stanford said, unmoved, hands on the dial. He turned it up and pushed the button. Electricity crackled, and Mr. Grimes twitched like a marionette in a high wind, screaming.

“You fucking sadistic Yid. Did he ever tell you about the ESP study he conducted with transients?” Mr. Grimes giggled. “He liked giving them shocks, to ‘provoke a psychic reaction'.”

Stanford was still unmoved. “It was part of the study, they knew what they were signing up for. Tell us how you entered the dimension.”

He turned up the dial again, pressed the button, and Mr. Grimes screamed and writhed, shaking in the chains. “Did he tell you about the mice and chimps he killed as part his experiments?”

“I had to, I didn’t have a choice,” Stanford said. “You aren’t answering the question.” He turned the dial up and shocked Mr. Grimed again. The smell of singed flesh, hair and ozone lingered in the air.

Mr. Grimes’ eyes flashed bright silver. “OR,” he chuckled darkly, “About what he did to his own father.”

“LIAR!” Stanford had lost control of his voice. He lunged for the controls, but Rick and Stan held him back. A question bubbled in Stan’s mind. Mr. Grimes was lying, right?

“He killed him! There’s a circle in hell reserved for kinslayers. He was the only one who gave in to the old bastard’s requests for a quick death. Only one cold enough. Just put a pillow over the old man’s face until he stopped breathing. That’s when you knew how easy it was to kill, right Stanford?” Mr. Grimes said, his voice filled with glee.

Rick was struggling to hold back Stanford. He was on his own now… Stan had let go his jaw slack, his eyes questioning. He sought answers in his brother’s face. But Stanford was gone, leaping towards the controls, turning the voltage dial up all the way and pushing the button long and hard. The electricity crackled. Mr. Grimes screamed, screamed, screamed, until he stopped. The odor of burnt hair and…. flesh, sickeningly like a barbecue, was overpowering. There was smoke, and there in the center of the room was Mr. Grimes' body, charred and dead. Stan poked it to be sure.

They packed up and got another stern lecture from Dr. Black-Flashman. Stan tuned it out. He was tired. Like, soul tired. He kept looking back at his brother. Ford wouldn’t meet his eye. They didn’t speak, until they were in the lobby. Outside, a summer thunderstorm raged.

“Ford?” Stan asked.

“Yeah,” Stanford answered.

“That thing was lying, right? Pa died in his sleep... right?” Stan asked.

Stanford didn’t look at him, but said, “Yes, of course.”

And hearing it, Stan knew his brother was lying. That Mr. Grimes had told the truth. But that there was nothing he could do, and all the rage in the world wouldn’t help.

“That was a waste of time,” Dr. Hinter sighed, even as she looked a bit disconcerted.

Fiddleford looked pale, and kept looking at the floor.

“Hey, ya know what would help us now?” Rick said. “Getting wrecked. Totally black out drunk.”

“You know, Rick,” Stanford said, sounding tired. “That’s an excellent idea.”

Everyone else nodded in agreement. They needed it, after that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fun with anagrams! Abel Milch Grimes


End file.
